


Illuminating

by conchepcion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Comedy, Drabbles, Drama, F/M, Love, Magic, Omega-verse, Porn, Post-His Last Vow, Potter!Professsor!Lock, Romance, SPOILERS FOR SERIES THREE, Shameless Smut, Smut, Wedding, alternative universe, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 62,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles and one-shots previously posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meditation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to post some of the things I've posted on tumblr here, and future ones as well. Prompt by Ceaselesslyinlove: A drunk Sherlock kisses Molly. Embarrassment ensues in the morning.

A wreath over the fireplace was fine. After all, it belonged to Mrs Hudson, and had been yearly brought up by John during the celebrations at Baker Street. However, with Mary mixed into the celebration there was mistletoe hanging above the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room.

This too was fine - _if_  one were to overlook the other artefacts of a less quality brand occupying the space, which Mary had brought in to his protest and John's amusement.

Neither of the pair lived there, yet they still disturbed his peace, as Mary had tidied up the kitchen, before using his space to start cooking what smelt – despite his better judgement – excellent.

He was not particularly fond of Christmas, as his own childhood memories of it were not exactly ones worthy of remembering. Sherlock did not reflect too long on the intrusion done by the married couple, occupying himself with his violin, as Mary had requested some music.

He would rather she did not play anything from her iPod. He did not exactly trust her taste, as the glaring Santa Claus she'd brought in, had finally been subdued when he pulled the plug from the ghastly thing (even John looked grateful).

Playing for what had been approximately two hours, listening to the lowered voices of Mary and John in the kitchen, the pair of them debating something furiously had been annoying, but he knew there was a topic that both wanted to bring up.

John finally cornered him, a drink in his hand, "Sherlock?" he said, clearing his throat, obviously trying to postpone his speech.

He paused the bow at the strings, letting the violin soon hang at his side, "John?" There was apparent hesitation in his friends face; clearly he was under pressure from his wife.

"Just – err – could you play nice – tonight?"

With furrowed brows he stared at John, his blue eyes dropping to the instrument before him, "I've never had a complaint before."

John snorted, "Not the violin – I mean – just – could you not be an -,"

"Arse?" piped Mary loudly from the kitchen, as she put her roast in the oven.

He stared at John, then Mary, before scoffing, "I think those who are coming are more than familiar with my behaviour."

"Well – we've had two quite normal Christmases – and I'd just like you to tone it down a bit-,"

"Don't act like an arse towards Molly," said Mary who came strolling out of the kitchen with a glass of red in her hand.

"Fine," he said briefly, his hand hovering over the strings of the violin again.

Mary seemed pleased by this, occupying one of the chairs, while John still hovered before him, "What?" he said, trying not to sound aggravated, though by the annoyed expression on John's face it had the opposite effect.

"Try to be normal, will you? She helped you, after all."

"I will be on my best behaviour," said Sherlock with a quick smile, that he dropped, and which did not make John look a bit more pleased.

"John, will you relax? It'll be fine – Molly knows what she signed up for after all. You don't need to protect her," said Mary with a sigh, "We just want you to not – make any observations about her…breasts…that's all."

Sherlock put the violin aside, "Well – I-," he had started, only to be interrupted by Mary's blurt of, "I didn't know you noticed that sort of thing, it's a bit odd…" She proceeded to look down at her own blouse, "Have you-,"

"No," he said without looking.

"Right," said John rubbing at his eyes, "Just be normal, and we'll have a nice evening."

"I suppose your definition of normal would be to drink, then?" said Sherlock, seeing the small bit of hurt appear in John's eyes.

He knew Harry had failed her recent attempt of sobering, though he did not anticipate John to retaliate by storming into the kitchen fetching a large bottle of whiskey.

"Drink up, then," he said annoyed.

* * *

Stepping into 221b Baker Street threw her back to the last Christmas she'd spent there, and it hadn't been a particularly happy memory. Excluding the soft feel of Sherlock's lips on her cheek, not that it hadn't stopped her from being a complete mess when she'd gotten to her flat, which she supposed was why the day after had been particularly harrowing.

There on a slab had been a woman who he seemed more interested in dead, than her ever alive, "Getting our Christma-," she started, when she'd gotten helped out of her coat, only catching Sherlock sat in one of the chairs looking very –  _grim._

"Oh…" she started, swiftly brought into conversation with Mary and John, both of whom were avoiding looking into Sherlock's general direction.

"Is he alright?" asked Lestrade out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the consulting detective who seemed to be mesmerized by the fire.

"He's just had a bit too much to drink," said Mrs Hudson with a wave of her hand, "Sherlock – will you play something for us?"

Silence fell over the party, everyone's eyes turning towards him, as he briefly gave a nod of his head standing on shaky feet, "Yes – of course," he said sounding rather distracted.

"John – maybe we should-," said Mary with a grimace.

"He'll be fine," he said.

Molly's brown eyes turned towards Sherlock who's bow was hovering over the strings over his violin, his blue eyes fixed on them, "Shall I?" he said softly.

"Yeah."

"Cheers."

"Lovely."

"Ok…" she said softly, clutching the drink she'd gotten from Mary, standing awkwardly in the sitting room. She wasn't wearing a dress this year, no; it was only a simple festive jumper and a pair of dark trousers. Molly didn't quite see the point of dressing up; neither had she wanted to, despite her presents.

They'd started to get along a bit better recently, and she supposed it had to do with the fact that he'd been dead for two years. Though, she hadn't seen him like this before, for when he did start to play it was erratic, and it was no tune that was worthy of being joyful.

Instead it was dark, tugging at the strings of her heart, more than anything, but she seemed to be the only one moved. Everyone else was awkward in their seats, eyeing each other, as she stared raptly at the man's half-shut eyes.

He looked different, though she suspected the alcohol had taken its toll, for everyone else were staring at him warily, like he'd snap any second. She'd never really heard him play, missing out that year.

Sherlock seemed relaxed, the crease between his brows of concentration, as he continued – he seemed at ease with the instrument between his hands.

Nothing wrong would come of this; it was only music, and not words that would ruin her evening.

His eyes opened, staring first into nothing, until they rested on her face. She let her eyes drop for a second, returning them slowly upwards to see that they were still on her. Blinking foolishly in return, she tried to calm the slow build-up of red in her cheeks.

Molly had forgotten her drink, letting it stay idle in her hands, as she freely stared at him in return. She had tried for a long time not to appear silly before him, at least not infatuated, but tonight she couldn't help herself really.

The music stopped.

His hand was gripping at the violin tightly, his knuckles white, the expression on his face confused, his eyes avoiding theirs, as he said, "I apologise."

"Oh, don't stop!" said Mrs Hudson teary-eyed, but he strode off through the kitchen, soon walking off to his bedroom, the resounding slam of the door audible to them all.

"Shit," said John with a frown, "I'll go, then."

Molly was surprised when she suddenly heard, "No, I'll just-," it was her own words, "Go."

She felt stupid the second she went, ignoring everyone's amazed looks, as she sprang off to his bedroom.

Giving to knocking ever so hesitantly, she heard the muffled, "Go away, John."

"It's me – Molly."

The door opened at that, causing her to take a step backwards, as he looked down on her.

She opened her mouth, soon shutting it, before she finally managed to say, "Are you okay?"

He stepped away from the door, and walked into his bedroom with uncertain feet, "Apparently not."

Molly walked in slowly, trying not to eye his room all-too curiously, "Um, that was – lovely – you should play some more…"

"Meditation," he blurted out, his back to hers.

"Sorry?"

He turned around, staring at her, "I was meditating on a pair of fine brown eyes." The way he said it, certainly caught her off guard, for his expression was muddled – that particularly line was underlined in her old copy, of course –  _Pride and Prejudice._

Sherlock did not go on, at first she wasn't entirely certain what to say, but she found her words in the end.

"Sherlock?" she said with a frown, "Are you making fun of me?"

He'd seen the book, of course he would, and she felt sillier than usual for being fond of it. Of course it would be a memorable evening, one of those evenings she'd find herself sobbing loudly in her bedroom, "No," he whispered, breaking her reverie, when he shut the door behind her.

She became aware of how unsettlingly close he was, of how he stared down at her, his blue eyes flickering over her face, "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

Next thing she knew his mouth was on hers, clumsily at first, passionate the next, as his hands wrapped around her waist.

She did not know what to do with her hands.

To be fair she did not know what to do full stop.

He tasted darkly of whiskey, of faded cigarettes; as his mouth coaxed hers open. Her back was pressed into the door, the woodwork pushing at her, while his firm body held her in place.

She let her hands stay on his warm chest, trying not to think, though it wasn't very hard. A deep moan left his throat, his hands pressing into her more persistently, with more longing than she knew he ever owned.

Molly didn't know what to think, what to do, feeling like she was being swallowed up by his very existence.

It was close to drowning…

The burning touch of his fingers that were hurriedly tugging at her clothes, awakening the little voice in her head – "No."

She'd said it out loud, drawing herself away from his lips, and finding the same chaotic expression mirrored in his eyes, "I've – I've got to go."

Molly tore her coat on after that, leaving her gifts, leaving the puzzled stares of the others, as she ran out of Baker Street, with no intention of returning.

* * *

"Hello," she said.

There he was by the microscope, as usual. She had never expected him to be there really, as it was still the holidays, and London was always eerily quiet during those. Molly was only taking over someone's shift, because she couldn't stand the idea to be left alone with her thoughts. Obviously she would have to reflect over last night's incident after all.

"Molly," he said without looking up.

She pressed her lips together, quickly trying to get her results, so she wouldn't need to be in his presence any longer, "I'm sorry."

She stopped in her track, letting her eyes stay on him, "It's alright – you – you weren't you, after all."

She laughed, too long maybe, for he looked absolutely at a loss, and she wondered if he'd forgotten.

"Oh, God – you don't – you don't remember?" she let out without thought, her hand leaping off to her forehead in embarrassment, "Of course you wouldn't-,"

He was about to open his mouth, though she went on, "It's alright – we can forget about it, it meant nothing to you of course, and everyone said you were pissed, so – it's okay, so, I'll just-," she pointed towards her papers, soon plucking up her samples, as she started to walk off.

"I never drank."

She whirled around, "What?"

He was standing now.

"John only thought I had – it's amazing what you can do with any regular kitchen item if you have it at your disposal."

She was gaping, "But-,"

"I only had one…I do manage to keep my drink, after all…They were all so worried I'd embarrass you," he said walking towards her.

She fidgeted with her papers, staring at him, "Then-,"

"Mary asked me a rather good question – why would  _I_  be aware of the size of any woman's breast?" His eyebrow was raised, so were hers, as she swiftly shut her mouth to appear less foolish, "Or her weight? Or the length of her hair-," his hand was toying with the end of her ponytail, a flush appearing in her cheeks, as his fingertips stroked the strands, "Or her favourite book? Or the way she takes her coffee?"

"You – you know everything about John."

He smiled briefly at that, "I know it, because I need to know it – I have never required any of my information about you."

"Oh – but you…kissed me."

He released her hair, his fingers idly brushing her shoulder, "I suppose a coffee would be good - first, then?"

She didn't know how long she looked at him, in disbelief, in longing. No, she didn't know, though her lips curved upwards as she said, "Black with three sugars," before she walked off, with him soon at her heels.


	2. Pure Imagination

**Pure Imagination**

In his mind he was always there, with his mouth ghosting on the skin between her breasts, teasing her rosy nipples with quick licks that would have her squirming underneath him.

He would have her pinned down, her wrists smarting slightly from the pressure, as he felt her pulse thumping loudly underneath his palms.

She would always attempt to disguise her pleasure, her small breathy moans would however escape in intervals, and joyously include poor attempts at uttering his name, "Sh- sh – er -," that would disintegrate when he'd use his mouth on her pulsing nub.

Her whispers would become cries – that echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, as his fingers slid themselves into her body.

Nails would claw their way into his back, hands pulling at his hair, as she tried to seek some ground. He would find heaven between her thighs; the sweetest of flavours soaking his face, and causing his already engorged cock to twitch in want.

Even there he would imagine bedding her, having her pressed into the covers, from any angle he could have her, until he lost every ounce of him inside her. With thrust upon thrust, his cock would swell between her thighs, her warmth enveloping him, as she would scream his name in her release.

"Are you ok?" she said looking up from scribbling on her charts.

Sherlock cleared his throat, brows knitted, as he kept his eyes on the microscope. He'd been pretending the last hour that the samples were interesting, when he was in fact memorizing certain aspects of her flesh by sheer look alone.

Sherlock did not give the impression, but he had an imagination to fill the gaps between the unseen places. But he knew that those sacred areas where perhaps much more interesting, than his imagination accounted for. He could feel his cock strain at the innocent thought, though he barely had a harmless consideration anymore around his pathologist.

"Yes – yes – I'm fine, Molly -," he hurriedly said, when he realised he'd been quiet, and her brown eyes were fixed upon him.

"Why are you lying?"

It was astounding when she chose to be perceptive. Some days he would get away with these thoughts, but they'd been attacking his mind so often of late – he assumed there was no other way around it than confrontation.

He could see by the way her hands clenched around the clipboard she'd been wondering about it for a while, and it certainly did not make him feel easier by the fact that she moved closer to his side, "It's just, you seem a bit strained lately – is it the lack of cases?"

That had been his conclusion to begin with.

There had popped up an array of reasons as to why,  _"He was having difficulties."_ Lack of sleep, sustenance, boredom, supressed sexual desire, terrible parenting, and the list went on and on. At least those were the things he'd proclaimed to his 'therapist' Doctor Roen (a pointless session, really, but he'd gotten desperate); "Or perhaps, you are in love?" the man had told him.

"In love? In  _love?_ "

He'd scoffed, snorting loudly before he escaped the office, soon returning seconds later proclaiming, "No!"

"You don't need to convince me, Mr Holmes. It was only a suggestion."

It was a terrible suggestion, a frightful one at that, but his administrations with his pressing need later that night doubled at the idea, of not only having her body, but her too.

He hadn't understood why it had been  _her._ She hadn't altered in the slightest, still wearing her colourful clothing, as he was daily subjected to creative mismatched patterns. Molly Hooper wasn't doing anything, except continuing being herself.

He had tried figuring out a logical explanation; perhaps he felt he hadn't thanked her properly? He did thank her; with various gifts, but none of those did anything but increase his frustration.

The pleased look on her face - with flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and a tender smile had forced him to partake in a very cold shower the subsequent evening, worsened it all. Sherlock tried to recreate that expression every now and then, only to make him moan soundly into his pillow, as he always found release the subsequent night(s).

"Sherlock?" she said, her thin pink lips pressed together in concern, as his blue eyes flitted to her face. He had no idea how long he'd been gone, or how long he'd been staring, "Are you really alright?"

" _Well_  – look at the time -," he said without looking at his wrist-watch, a brief smile lingering on his lips, before he allowed it to shed, intending to run out of the lab.

"Wait!"

She looked at him, hands clenched at her sides, while her mouth was partially open. Molly looked downright confused, perhaps, so did he, for truth be told – he was.

He had to admit he was taken aback the second he found her hand skimming over the buttons of his dark purple shirt, "I'm fond of this shirt, you know," she said with a small smile, briefly looking up at him, as he felt his arms turned to lead at his sides.

She was giggling, a light laugh that sent a pleasant sensation through his stomach, despite nerves at finding her delicate hands at his shirtfront.

This was another fantastical situation, perhaps? He still found himself swallowing soundly, his mouth turning dry, as her hands slid smoothly down his chest, ending at the bulge of his trousers grasping him through the fabric.

He was gaping, eyes slightly narrowed, while her expression was playful, "I'm fond of this as well, it's been a bit difficult not to notice really." She was biting at her lip, while making him hiss soundly at the deliberate pressure her hand was having on his cock.

"Kiss me," she said, "It's not that tricky, just…kiss me."

The uncertainty in her suddenly appeared, and he felt his own increase by the sudden uprising in hers.

Imagination was one thing, but crossing the real threshold was certainly another. He didn't avoid challenges however - arms springing up to hold her tightly towards him, crushing their lips together, as her mouth opened to his willingly.

She tasted – like raspberry, sweetened coffee, and dark chocolate. It was a desperate kiss, with her dragging him down to her lips by the lapels of his shirt, and with him divulging her of her lab-coat.

Hurriedly, clothes were flung to the floor.

No, consideration to the thin doors, but it was late.

No one but the two of them left, like always, neither willing to leave, until the other admitted defeat.

He had her spread out on the counter, steering objects away with some pretence of caring, "Sherlock-," she moaned, as a beaker was heard crashing towards the floor.

"I'll pay-," he groaned, as he dragged her towards him by the hips, so he could easily thrust into her, her legs soon crossed behind his back with a vice-grip.

"Oh –  _oh_ – God-," she gasped out, her hair fanned out underneath her, and her breasts leaping at his increase of speed.

He could count the freckles on her body, the tiny scars, and moles, as he lost himself in her, wishing he could stay, but –

"Are you ok?" she said looking up from scribbling on her charts, the ring on her finger shining a light into his eyes.

"Yes," he said, and so he would continue, until his last breath.

So he vowed.


	3. The Last Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using lines from trailers regarding series 3, and series-speculations. Possible spoilers (hah).

**The Last Dance**

He had not expected that.

He hadn't expected that punch, or the way John looked at him.

He hadn't understood, not really.

Why wasn't he ok?

_He_  was alive after all.

He didn't understand.

He explained every detail, the why, and the how, and everything, but John still walked away. Mary was the one who tried to apologise, the one who sent him a smile, as she walked off hand in hand with John.

* * *

His speech, "Just the two of us against the rest of the world," was apparently not the thing John wanted to hear the next day either.

John had pinched his nose at that, and shut his eyes, "Right, that's not what I came here for, but obviously you don't get that…"

It was then he understood, what Mycroft meant, "He's got on with his life."

But, this didn't only mean John.

No, everyone.

He understood the others, quite a lot in fact, those were easier, but  _her._

She knew he was alive.

She knew everything.

She'd helped.

She did matter, of course she did, and he fully expected her to wait for him, "Things…have changed," she said.

Her hands had been in the pockets of her coat, which she hadn't yet shrugged off, when she came to Baker Street, "Mary told me," she said, "Thought I might pop round, if you need-,"

"I don't-," he said all too harshly, his eyes zeroing in on her hands, "Why are-,"

She finally took off her coat, hanging it up, as she hugged herself – the ring glaringly obvious on her hand – "I'm engaged."

He was surprised by the sudden heavy weight in his stomach.

"His name is Tom-," she started, and all of it faded in the background.

He saw her smile, her little laugh, and the way she held herself around him. She was different, but she hadn't changed. She just didn't -

His phone went off at that, he didn't apologise, and neither did he make an excuse, as he grabbed for it, "Lestrade," he said pleasantly, eyeing her.

* * *

He brought her along.

He tried to impress her.

He always did that, that was normal, of course he would, but he saw Lestrade eyeing him, "Welcome to my world," he said confidently, and he could hear the detective inspector's snort.

She'd only laughed at that, seeming a bit startled, but comfortable nonetheless.

She was easy to be around, nothing really seemed problematic, and he'd always assumed he'd be the one – "I think, I have to go home now, it's gotten a bit late, and I think -," she said with a small smile.

"Of course."

She reminded him that he wasn't alone, that John wasn't his only friend, though somehow he'd never felt lonelier.

* * *

_Laugh and sing,_

_But while we're a part,_

_Don't give your heart to anyone,_

The music went loudly on the speakers, annoyingly so, and he was constantly sighing, as he wandered around.

He felt restless -

_Don't forget who's taking you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be_  - his eyes flitted constantly to the dance floor.

Mary and John were dancing tenderly, with John happily whispering into her ear, and Sherlock felt rather pleased for him, of course. They'd reconciled, and Mary was surprisingly 'nice', though he didn't understand entirely why she kept popping up to tell him, "You're a bit thick, aren't you? Just a bit."

_So darlin'_

_Save the last dance for me_

As weddings go it wasn't the dullest, the murder had certainly sparked things up. Of course John saw that as negative, but Sherlock suspected that the several glasses of champagne sorted that out. Yet, despite the distraction, and the fact that _she'd_  helped – he hadn't felt particularly good.

His eyes found her easily, inserted in one of the silly bridesmaid dresses that she bore with pride, and wore well. She looked foolish, but she didn't seem to care. He didn't know how to feel about that, about how little she was self-conscious, as he half-expected her to be watching him.

No, her eyes were on… _Tom._

Tom.

_Nice Tom._

_Everyone likes Tom._

He was an idiot, of course.

Complete idiot.

But he made her happy.

And… "Could you just go and ask her?" said Mary, who was surprisingly enough standing besides him.

"Sorry?"

"Molly," said Mary with a knowing smile.

He furrowed his brows, "What? To dance? Why?"

She sighed loudly at that, "John, could you-,"

John looked as bewildered as he was, "What?"

"Jesus," said Mary with a small voice, "Right, I'm just-,"

The woman walked off at that, and he stood at a loss, "What was that about?" said John with two champagne glasses in his hands, sipping out of one of the pair.

"No idea."

He found himself on the dance floor, his hands clenching slightly as he walked through, "May I-," he found himself saying, and Tom had just nodded politely, giving Molly a peck on the cheek.

She looked a bit shocked to begin with, though she soon grinned, "I didn't think you could dance," she said.

"Obviously, I've proven you wrong."

His hand was on her waist, and the other clasped in her warm small hand.

She laughed spiritedly at the twists and turns, and he found his mouth turning upwards at that.

He didn't know why he was there.

No, he didn't – "Are you happy?" The words came out, all filters turned off, and her happy expression died.

"What?"

"With Tom?" he said, clearing his throat slightly, as he avoided her bright brown eyes.

He kept his eyes everywhere else, but soon turned them back to her.

"Yeah…yeah…I am," she said.

"Good."

But it wasn't.

* * *

He'd lost it, his ability to deduce.

It was gone.

"No, you haven't!" John said rather disgruntled, while Mary put the kettle on ('I'll make some tea, I think'), "It's not something you can just lose, it's not a bloody super power."

"I've lost it, John," he spat in return.

He'd been wrong.

Wrong!

Him - wrong?

Anderson.

Anderson had been right.

_Anderson!_

He'd clearly lost his touch. The years had taken their hold, obviously, and he'd gotten beyond rusty.

"I think it's just a fluke, you know - it'll be all right," said Mary in an attempt to soothe, but he grimaced in return.

It didn't.

It got worse.

He neglected himself.

He didn't care.

His apathy for his appearance certainly set the others on edge, with Lestrade going, "Is he ok?" As if he wasn't even there, while Mrs Hudson cleared up things in the flat, despite fervently meaning she wasn't going to.

"I think he's going through a bit of a rough patch-," and then her voice went low, and Lestrade's eyes went wide.

"What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson?" he said rising up from his position on the sofa.

"Nothing, dear!" she called, soon waving the pair off.

* * *

"You could try, just have a look – we'll just take a trip – to – err – you know – Bart's."

He eyed Lestrade's nervous expression suspiciously, "Fine," he snapped, not even willing to put on the coat.

* * *

"Just go, it'll be alright-,"

"Ok, I will-,"

The laughter caused him displeasure, when he slammed the lab doors open, and spotted the pair of them. They broke apart that very instance, while his frown deepened. Molly looked at him, her brows knitted, and her expression startled, "Sherlock? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," he said with a roll of his eyes.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "Molly – Tom – Molly – I just – err - could you wheel out a Mrs Foster? We need to have a look."

"That's my cue, then," said Tom.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

Molly eyed him at that; though she gave Tom a long hug, before she silently led them to the morgue.

"There's-," she'd started gesturing to the deceased.

He'd seen all the details already, oddly enough; he didn't need her to say it. Somehow he'd felt better, but – worse…"When is the happy day, then?"

She stilled, while Lestrade coughed awkwardly, "Could we just-," he started in the background.

"I've already got everything I need. I don't need any-," he said annoyed, wondering why she wasn't answering him.

"Don't you?" she said.

She looked angry, emotion clearly in her eyes, but he didn't understand why, "Look at you."

"I think-," he started for the door.

"No, need to thank me, then," she said, and he felt his eyes slid shut.

He'd forgotten, of course he had, and he turned round to say something, but her back was to his. He shut his mouth, before he said anything else.

* * *

He'd shaved, showered, taken care of every single detail, before he found himself in the locker room.

Her back tensed, his face reflecting in the mirror inside the locker, which she banged shut, "What?" she said, but she didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Ok," she said, with a hollow laugh.

"No, Molly, I am. I really am."

"Yeah, well, it's a bit too late."

She whipped around at that, and he saw the tears, "It's been two years, two years, and you just came back like it was nothing. I didn't hear a single word from you. Not one, and you expect me to be exactly where I was?"

He opened his mouth, but she went on, "I couldn't wait – Sherlock – it was _two_  years-,"

"I know," he said softly.

She released a breath at that, her mouth pressed together, as he saw the visible tremble. Molly was holding herself back, a thing she never ever did before, and for once he couldn't continue hold back himself, "You do matter."

"Right… _right_."

"You do-,"

She'd started to move, and he didn't want her to.

He stopped her then.

He knew what possessed him that single second, knew what made his lips collide with hers, pressing her up against the hard metal surface, as he almost drew  _life_ from her mouth.

She mattered, after all, much more than words could convey, and so he told her the way he knew others did.

He stayed.


	4. Idiot

**Idiot**

"Wha- what was that for?"

Parted lips, laboured breathing, flushed cheeks, dilated pupils; all the physical responses he expected, but the emotional response to said action was unexpected, "I – I apologise," he said with furrowed brows, making his escape, as the damage was done.

Sherlock threw himself into a taxi; roughly opening the buttons of his shirt, for air seemed difficult to digest, as he felt the furious beatings of his heart. He ignored the flutter, the blood flow, and the shot of pain.

It was easy to ignore.

After all, he'd been doing it for years.

* * *

She is bent over the paperwork, brown eyes narrowed to read out the small font, her stance relaxed, until she snaps into an upright position at the creak of the door.

Gaping mouth, pink spots in cheek, "Oh," she said, "Hello."

"Molly – lovely to see you – have you gotten the test results for a Mr Maxwell?" he said – smile wide, and a general air of  _nice._

"Um – actually-," she starts, and her eyes are anxious. He sees the faint flicker in the brown, the turn towards the exact spot where he –

"A child's life is on stake here – I do think that's more important than – a lunch date? After all it will most likely be a disappointing one anyway," he said, adding a swift "Thank you."

He doesn't wait for her to agree, he only views the crinkle between her brows, dismissing the small mumble from her lips, and let's her walk off to fetch the results, "What was that for?"

The coat is halfway off when he sees John with crossed arms, "Sorry?" He forgot he was there for a second, and he finds himself swallowing at the choice of words his flatmate uses.

"Christ – fine, right - just go on then," said John with a loud sigh.

"No, John – do tell – since obviously it takes precedence over this?"

Raised brows, and a pursed mouth – are soon followed by, "She's your friend."

"I'm well aware."

"Do you think you could try to be a bit nicer?"

"I am nice."

"No, you bloody well aren't."

"Fine."

"Ok, good."

She returns with the papers, hands them to him silently, "Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome-," she said drawing back. Regularly she'd hover, ask if she's needed, but her back is displaying itself instead.

"I apologise if I upset you," he said rather hurriedly, and she wheels around at that.

"I didn't mind – I mean I  _don't_  mind," she said with wide eyes at her mistake, as John stands puzzled in the background, "And I wasn't…there is no date."

"Oh," he said, releasing breath he did not know he kept, directing his eyes to the papers, pretending he doesn't need a minute to recover – "Why are you wearing lipstick?" His mouth leaps before him, and he watches her faintly smile, making the shade on her lips even more glaringly obvious by the flash of teeth.

John snorts in the background, giving him a warning look, while Molly clutches her hands slightly, "I just – I felt like it," she said, "…I should go, then."

"Stay."

* * *

Her hair is parted to the side, there's still a shade of rose to her lips, but it is her own, "Finished then?" she said, rubbing at her eye, soon attempting to disguise her yawn.

"Yes, thank you," he said, "You should go home, Molly."

"Oh, I'm alright," and with that exclamation she yawns wider, soon dissolving into a bout of overtired giggles.

There's a sudden itching inside of him at the sound, he lets his eyes fly above her head, "If you want, I can help."

"I can manage," she said, "It's all right – I'm -," and then she stops talking, her mouth rounding up, as she stares at him, apparently at a loss.

He lets his eyes go to her lips briefly, forcing them on her eyes instead, "If you want?"

"Ok," she said in a much brighter voice.

He holds up the door to the lab, letting her pass, as she releases another yawn, her eyes skirting towards him distractedly.

* * *

It's an unknown sensation - the weight of her head on his chest, the softness of her cheek pressed against his shirt, as he feels her softly breathe at his side. His large hand is tangled into her smaller one, and he feels the tiny surge of pleasure drift inside him, untangling the contents, and dissolving the hurt, "Sherlock?" she said with a small voice.

He makes a throaty noise in assent, as he marvels over the softness of her hands, "You're an idiot," she said, and he feels the wide smile into his chest.

Sherlock laughs, neither is he able to stop.


	5. Sad

**BECAUSE WHAT'S THE POINT IN THEM BEING HAPPY NOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO BE SAD LATER**

The low chatter that went around the room increased the second she appeared, hand in hand with her  _fiancé_. He had yet met the man, only seen the large rock on her finger, revealing in essence the value of the man's bank account.  _Tom_ had spared no expense, none whatsoever.

A fact often spoken by Mary good-naturedly, hinting towards John's failed proposal, that Sherlock surmised would be back in the questioning in a months time. But, it was by the way Molly clutched Tom's hand, her knuckles turning white, and her behaviour almost a warning to the surrounding people that made him wary. He saw it on Tom that very second, and it felt like he'd fallen further than from St Bart's, "Sherlock – say hello -," said John by his side with a furtive glance, but he only pressed his lips together in silence.

"Ok – what's wrong with him, then? Is he an evil henchman, or the master-mind behind the whole thing?" said his friend laughing; obviously assuming it was his dislike for social norms, of 'saying hello to each other'.

"He's dying."

* * *

"I can see you," the words burned on the inside of his cheek, duelling with his mouth, with his thoughts, and clinging to his mind every waking second he spent.

No one seemed to be able to speak of anything else, but the 'brave dying man' and his 'lovely fiancé' – a woman about to sacrifice everything, for one man, the woman who counted, his friend - Molly.

He would let the words fall in front of John, let them drop heavily, until his friend sighed, "Can't you just let her be happy?"

"How long will that be, exactly?"

Sherlock saw it – the smiles, the laughs, and the sadness that had set in her brown eyes. It pained him seeing it, for he knew no advice would set her on the right path, though he still spoke it.

Her replies would be silence, her eyes meeting his in aggravation, until she one day said, "I just…I love him, and I know you don't know how that's like, but I do…so please – stop, just  _please_."

It was then the sadness carved out pieces of him, "Are you alright?" John asked him at the reception, obviously anxious.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, jerking his head towards the dance floor, so his friend was distracted by his girlfriend, "Why wouldn't I be?"

He memorized every detail of her dress, of how the light fell upon her hair, of how deep her dimples became and how bright her eyes twinkled underneath the glowing lights.

This memory he carried with him, like a torch to remind him of what she had gained, however fleeting, and what he could only strive for in thought.

Sometimes he wished he were still dying, that any breath could be his last, and he was only inches away from the edge, but he knew that wasn't the reason, "You love her?" said a voice, stopping him up, as he was bound to leave.

He halted in his step, turning around to meet the slightly pale groom, who was covering up the pain he was under with quick smiles, "Sorry?" Sherlock said with raised brows.

"My wife?" said Tom, hands in his pockets, and giving him a wry grin, "It's hard not to, so I won't hate you for it."

He snorted loudly in return, gaining only a disbelieving look from the ill man, "Right, ok, so, you're not going to answer, then? Well, whenever it does come, just…be…good."

Tom had just looked at him, a hesitant smile at his lips, before he then promptly walked away.


	6. Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by the-doctor-wtf: Molly saves Sherlock's life in a non-Fall related adventure.

**Tonight**

"You want me to help you?"

"Problem?"

"Err – it's - I – actually," she cleared her throat loudly at that, wondering vaguely whether or not she'd heard wrong, though she said, "OK."

"Could be dangerous," he said, eyeing her curiously at that, and she caught his rather anxious expression.

He didn't have anyone else; she was his last option, though she knew that she was the only one he'd asked. After all she had been there when he'd gotten the case.

"It'll be all right - I'm with you – no – I mean-," she blurted out, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink, "It's okay, I've read John's blog after all."

She gave to giggle brightly at that, catching his mouth tugging upwards, though he hurriedly threw open the doors of the lab.

She shouldn't have mentioned John, though she really did believe they'd have it sorted out in the end, but she didn't exactly feel compelled to mention it.

After all Sherlock was smarting quite the whopper of a bruise on his face, which wasn't exactly surprising - it had the night John was going to propose to Mary after all, and timing was certainly not Sherlock's best quality.

Molly could only imagine John's face of horror when Sherlock dropped into the vacant seat, while Mary was at the loo. It did ruin the surprise, especially when Sherlock had gone on a long escalated rant about the stupidity of marriage, when Mary finally appeared at the table.

She'd gotten a long incredulous phone call from John after that, "Oh my god - really?" she'd said, as Sherlock had already popped up at St Bart's scaring her witless in the locker room. It wasn't exactly the time or place to say, "I actually knew he was dead."

Despite the fact that it was tempting, as she understood at least then John wouldn't direct all his anger at Sherlock.

"You've gotten better at lying then," Sherlock had said wandering into the lab, "Good."

She hung up on John claiming to be busy, and that's when Lestrade had rung Sherlock up, "A suicide bomber?" said Sherlock, his brows knitted, as his blue eyes met hers.

The idea of Jim loomed over them, all of a sudden, and she really hoped it wasn't, especially when she saw the trace of fear appear in his eyes.

If Moriarty was still alive – then what was the point of those two years?

And then he'd asked her, and she'd hesitantly said yes.

* * *

That's how she suddenly found herself on a crime-scene, a proper one, though people were eyeing her and Sherlock quite a lot. She suspected they weren't exactly used to the fact that he was not dead – "Sherlock – wow – err - Molly-," said Lestrade gaping slightly.

"She's with me," said Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring Lestrade, as they went beyond the police line.

They were escorted to what was apparently a vacant building, except the man who was splattered against the interior of the walls that was.

"I – don't know if there's much…to go on here. Anderson is at a bit of loss," said Lestrade.

"He would be," said Sherlock with narrowed eyes, observing the area.

The walls were spattered with blood, rubbish littering the floor, though in the middle of the room – there was a body placed on a broken chair, or what was left of the body – the upper body was a part of the room now, only the lower part remained.

Sticking out where the man's stomach used to be was a blackened device, which she assumed was the bomb, "Quiet," said Sherlock.

She'd only exhaled, and Lestrade had swallowed rather deeply. Obviously the detective inspector wasn't used to this kind of thing, she'd only grimaced a bit – she'd seen worse, and that was saying a lot.

But she was rather excited.

Molly had never seen Sherlock deduce before, seeing his eyes flash around in rapid speed all over the place, "This place was rented out to someone then?" he asked, his head turning towards Lestrade.

"Yes – they'd thought of renovating, but I don't think they'll have the place now. It's been empty for about six months."

"Interesting," said Sherlock with a tiny smile, "Since – someone has been living here."

"Who?" said Lestrade bewildered.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, his hand on his mobile phone, before he said, "Molly – what can you make of it?"

She'd been slowly bringing her utensils out, slipping on her gloves, and eyeing the room curiously, "It's a bit odd," she said, bending down briefly to peer at the man's remains, poking at the docile device, "You'd think if it was a proper bomb the whole of his body would be gone. After all wouldn't he'd been at a public place? That's what they usually do…" she said poking at the insides of the body, feeling some very apparent, "Oh…but it seems like the bomb was…inside the body."

"Really?" said Lestrade, "Who'd willingly let themselves be stitched up with a bomb?"

"Obviously someone who didn't know it was one," said Sherlock rolling his eyes, "I have enough now, let's go."

Molly gaped slightly, straightening herself from standing over the body, as Sherlock strode out of the room, "He's a bit like that, you'll get used to it," said Lestrade with raised brows.

"I know, it's just, I'm usually at the lab-,"

"Molly-," Sherlock's voice called out in the distance.

"Good luck," said Lestrade with a snort, "And do tell me if you lot have found something, knowing him he's probably on the trail of the murderer already."

* * *

"Stop!" said Sherlock, making the taxi pull over with, with her half-jumping in her seat.

He'd walked out at that, with her eyeing the cabbie sheepishly, unsure if she should pay him or not, though Sherlock returned after he'd given a homeless girl on the pavement some pounds.

"Why did you do that?" she said astonished that he'd at all care, especially midst traffic.

"Homeless Network, remember?" he said, "Drive on."

Those exact people had been a rather large aid in securing the tiny bits of their plan, making sure John was disorientated, making sure that Sherlock's pulse did not become apparent, before they'd manage to swap him with another body.

It was a good thing St Bart's had been rebuilding, or Sherlock would have actually fallen to his death, "Oh, right," she'd said.

* * *

She was surprised when he suggested they eat, as, "I won't be having anything, thank you," he said to the waitress who scurried off to get Molly's order, as he kept a close eye on his phone.

"So, some homeless people lived there?" she said, coming to the conclusion on her own.

He looked up from his phone, "Yes – until this afternoon of course – someone's been living there steady for some months, apparent by the newspapers that littered the floor – one was dated to yesterday."

"Wow, I didn't-,"

"Of course you wouldn't-," he said, and she sighed, "What? Was that not good?" he said looking completely puzzled.

It was stupid how a man who could discern every single detail about everyone, who knew what they'd done, why they'd done it – still didn't understand people.

She snorted briefly, wondering how John did put up with him at times, as he could be rather like a child, "No, it's – it's ok."

"Molly – if you don't want to-,"

"It's alright, just try to be – err - a bit less of a-,"

"Dick," he quipped with a brow raised, though he didn't at all seem wary or angry at her, "That's what John would say."

She laughed, "Yeah – um – I wouldn't call you that though," she said, thinking over the many words she'd thought throughout the years.

* * *

"I didn't think you'd just - try to find witnesses - I thought you'd do a bit more," she said a bit unsurely, as he glanced at her while they walked through a dark alley, about to meet their witness.

"There is not much else to be done right now – Mycroft is already on the lookout on the manufacturer of the bomb…" he said distractedly.

They'd found out for the last hour that the man who'd let himself be stitched up had thought it was a harmless device keeping his heart ticking, and she felt somewhat sorry for the man.

"You could – you could see where it came from?"

"There was a name – it certainly helped when you took a closer look. People always pride themselves over their work, and our bomb-maker is a show-off. The bomb wasn't intended to blow the man to pieces, or to damage anyone. It was a warning," said Sherlock seeming delighted.

"Oh," she said frowning, "That's – um – good?"

He turned quiet after that, his hands on his phone, as they walked on, and she tried to keep up with his long strides.

"Molly - do I make you nervous?" he said all of a sudden, and she blanched in return.

"No – no – I just – it's just – you're-," _fit._

That was her exact thought, when he'd popped round the first time, but that wasn't why.

She'd been silly before, she'd been foolish like this, but he just – he blew her away, "It's just, it's that – well," she took a deep breath, "You see people. You see everything about them, all the time, and I've always been a bit afraid that you'd…see… _me_."

That he'd see her faults, that he'd see everything, and she didn't know she could manage to get those words out. Not really, not yet, at least.

"You saw me," he said.

She smiled vaguely at that, remembering his words – _you do count_  – she placed a lot on those words, felt them bring her courage, where she regularly did not have with him.

Molly was about to open her mouth, her cheeks flushed, as she stared up at him.

But…

That's when she heard the gunshot, that's when she pushed him aside, and that's when she fell to the gravel with an ache in her side, and at her heart.

She'd never been shot before.

* * *

It hurt.

This wasn't what would happen if she'd been in her lab-coat safely tucked away in the morgue.

No, that wouldn't happen at all.

She never got shot there, there wasn't a chance of being shot there, but she found herself almost laughing.

She was…alive.

Despite the hurt, that exact fact made her feel terribly good, even though she seemed alone, excepting the curtains drawn around her bed.

Molly didn't know how long she'd been out, or which hospital she was at, but - "You knew it was dangerous, and you still asked her," the doors to the room had been slammed open, though the voices were whispering furiously.

It was John.

"You wouldn't-," said the familiar deep voice, her lips quirking upwards, as she tried to push herself upright in the bed, tried to tell them she was all right.

"For God's sake - Sherlock – she could have died."

There was a brief pause at that, "Don't you think I know that?" He sounded angry, but most of all…hurt, "Don't you think I considered that when she pushed me aside? I -,"

It was quiet after that, "I'm sorry," said John, who soon added, "You're still a dick, but I'm glad you're alive – just could you – if you do it again – I swear I'll kill you myself."

"Obviously."

Both men laughed at that, though the laughter faded away, "Will she be okay, though?" said John.

"She has been asleep for two hours. The doctors said that she's recovering, but do you mind taking a look? I just…"

"Ok…" said John, that's when the curtains were drawn open, and she blinked awkwardly at the two men.

"Hello," she said barely managing the word, for her throat was terribly sore, but she was soon handed a glass of water – from Sherlock.

She stared at him as she took tentative sips, and John briefly glanced at the pair of them, "I think I'll just -," he left at that, giving her a brief smile.

When she emptied the cup, "More?" asked Sherlock.

Molly shook her head, and he took the cup away from her. She did not know how she looked; neither did she really want to know.

Sherlock looked pale, his white shirt stained with blood, and she knew then it was hers, "I'm-," she started, "Molly – I-," he went.

She pressed her lips together, waiting for him to say whatever he was going to say.

He looked flushed now, unlike anything she'd ever seen him be, "That was good – I – what you did – back there – thank you."

"It's okay," she managed to rasp forward, though his brows were knitted.

"Obviously it's not me…who – I mean – I won't worry, I mean, if you were with me – not that – I-,"

Her eyes were wide, and she felt absolutely confused with what he was trying to say, obviously he saw that, and he cleared his throat before he said, "When you said that you didn't need to worry, because you were with me – I just wanted to say – _likewise_."

She didn't know what to say, falling silent, as he gave her a brief smile, "Get well – John and I will find-," he said, faltering, as his expression turned grim.

"I trust you," she said, and his expression cleared at that, "I've always trusted you… I know if there's anyone who could…you would…you'll find out who did it."

She was baffled when he gave her hand a small squeeze, his expression soft, until he stepped back and out of the room.

Molly rested her head on the pillow, knowing that right now, she didn't really need more than that.

* * *

"It only took her to be shot, so she'd put up with you, then?" said John chuckling, smoothing out the tie around his neck, "I'm starting to think it's a must."

Sherlock glanced at his friend briefly.

He was going on a date with Mary.

Ironed clothing. Cologne. Washed his hair with  _his_ products.

He was taking to touching his own hair, focusing on minute details, brushing off a tiny piece of thread from his shoulder, which John regularly did not care for, "You're asking her tonight, then?" he said ignoring his friends comment.

John was buying time. Fifteen minutes of visible fidgeting where  _he_  had made no comment, for once. Sherlock was glad that he'd shaven off the moustache at least.

John let his hand drop to his side, turning his head towards him, "I suppose it's obvious, then?"

"Very," said Sherlock with a smirk.

"God…ok - I-," said John.

"Good luck," said Sherlock and John smiled in return.

"You know, it might not - it's not that-,"

_"John."_

John sighed loudly, "You'd think I wouldn't be bloody nervous, but I am."

"She will say yes."

"And how do you know that?"

"I just do," lied Sherlock.

John stared at him for a long time, "Right, ok – I'll go, then – so -,"

"Text me with the result," said Sherlock focusing on his laptop again, listening to John put on his jacket, before he finally heard the door to Baker Street smack shut.

Sherlock slammed the top of the laptop down, leaning back into his chair with a huff, as he steepled his fingers.

_Women._

He had already had the complicated throws of  _the woman_ , and by that assumption he had them all figured out, or so he thought. Molly, however - she was not one of  _them._ She didn't even belong in the category _._

She did not manipulate, did not seek to be pleased, and she did not have any expectations. He had believed she would have, after all, her feelings had been glaringly obvious.

A lesser man could see it, but he hadn't fully seen it. He had brushed it off, attempted to ignore it, but it was her belief in him that had been his salvation during those years. It was an enduring belief that still existed when he returned, and one that made it feel like he'd never left to begin with.

John had moved on, a good thing, and it was Molly's devotion that had aided that. She had supported the man, brought him up when he'd been low, and been his friend.

Sherlock knew he was difficult at times, knew he could be particular about things, and how he liked them, but he did not enjoy change.

She had  _not_ changed.

She had only become easier around him, though it hadn't been until after the case. She'd been shot that night, by her own foolish instinct, and that was to save him.

He hadn't understood it at the time, though John had told him rather aggravated, "It should be obvious why she did all that, shouldn't it?"

Then why hadn't she done anything now?

He had expected her dress up, to smear on lipstick, to ask him for another round of coffee, but she'd only greeted him with usual regularity at Bart's.

The only shift was in her words, of how she relayed herself, instead of fearing his answers – she went along, talking and laughing.

She had always laughed, always talked, sometimes never seeming to shut up, and he'd often find himself annoyed.

But he found himself listening now, not bursting out with, "Molly," to end her phrases, before they'd even begin.

He did let off steam on her before, let his frustrations be known, but he had never truly seen that he had. Mycroft's remark, "Your home from home," had finally hit him, with a jerk in his stomach, and he didn't know what to feel about it.

It was a very unfamiliar feeling, those idle little fluttering's, that persisted in her presence these days, as he grew to enjoy truly impressing her.

She had more extensive words in her vocabulary, though often a soft, "Wow," would make him smile.

Her astonishment had always pleased him, and the fact that she truly trusted him. He did not fully understand the extent of it until he'd met John, as the man had helped him, made him understand that he hadn't been kind. He saw that, he knew it, but he was afraid that if he for one moment were kind – that she'd break him.

It turned out she already had.

* * *

He ignored it.

Though when a case came along, and John was busy with wedding arrangements, "I need help - do you mind?" he had said to her, and she in turn looked surprised.

"Ok," she said, instead of making any excuses, or fumbling with her words, "I'll get my coat."

He did not know if it was for her benefit or for his, that she decided to come along, and he didn't know if he should reflect too much about it.

* * *

Instantly if John was busy he'd text her, she'd show up if she wasn't too busy, or tired. People made comments, though he chose to ignore them.

They always did talk.

* * *

They'd gotten too familiar, he knew that, but he didn't find it spectacularly out of character to eat with her after a harrowing case. He did not find it foolish to sit with her long into the night, to sit on her sofa listening to her talk, while the cup of tea went cold in his hands.

It was only because John wasn't there.

* * *

He found himself asking her to join him, when he knew John could. He found excuses to be at Bart's, excuses to send her texts, to give her coffee and he found John texting him –

_You like her_

_You're not answering. So you DO like her._

_Come on Sherlock. You were on the front page!_

_OK. FINE._

He still ignored it.

* * *

She had been halfway out of the door of the lab, suddenly taking several steps backwards, before she looked rather mad disappearing into the tiny storage room.

He opened his mouth in surprise, blue eyes turning to the door that swung open, when he saw a man pop his head in, "Sorry, have you seen a woman? Molly Hooper?"

"No," he said with a quick smile, which did not reach his eyes.

Dishevelled hair. Dirty boots. Torn jeans. Uni-friend?

Molly had hidden herself.

Ex?

The man dropped his thin-lipped smile, "Right, tell her Tom was here."

_Ex._

"Will do," said Sherlock pleasantly, scrunching up his nose a bit, though his entire face turned blank, as the man disappeared.

"Is he gone?" he heard her small voice say.

He stood up taking quick steps, as he opened the door, and stepped into the dark with her, "Sherlock?" she said with a squeaky voice, "What – what are you doing here?"

"Thought we might have a  _chat_."

He sounded cold.

He knew that.

"Oh," she said.

"Who is  _Tom_?"

He sounded jealous.

He knew that.

Sherlock became aware of how her shoulder hit his chest, how her breath reached him, how if he only moved an inch forward he could be touching her. His arms remained at his sides, still, unmoving.

"He's just an old friend," she said after a minute of silence.

"You might have gotten better at lying, but you won't fool me."

She snorted in the dark, her face briefly visible by the light shining from the doors edges, "I know. He's just an ex…he's been ringing me up lately."

The words leave his mouth, before he thinks them through, "You could have pretended I was your boyfriend. You used Jim for that exact purpose."

The door bangs open, and he's left in the dark.

* * *

She's standing in the lab; her hands are on her hips when he walks out from the darkness. Molly wheels around, "I did not use him to make you jealous."

He opens his mouth to make a reply; only she cuts him short, "I used him to forget you, didn't work, though, has it?"

There is wetness building up in her eyes, visible pain, "I thought that maybe…just maybe if we became friends it would be easier, but it hasn't…It's just worse."

"Molly-,"

"I know you're married to your work. You don't need to tell me, it's alright – I'll be fine – I've managed so far."

She is about to leave, her feet taking her to the door, her shoulders hunched, "I never thanked you," he said.

His mouth is ahead of his mind once more, but this time she stops. She turns around, "What? But – you've-," he cuts her off this time, silencing her with his mouth.

Her hands are bunched up around his shirt collar, her body rigid in surprise, softening all of a sudden, and he feels the smile on her lips, feels them tug the corners of his mouth upwards.

He doesn't know how to stop, but neither does he try.

He can't ignore it, couldn't even if he tried.


	7. Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Elixirbb - Professor!Potter!Lock

 

**Wings**

It had taken seven years before she; Molly Hooper had finally landed herself detention. None were more surprised than she was at the unexpected turn of events. Her fellow Hufflepuff's sniggering at her, as she was "Supposed to  _lead_ an example," said the head of their house, which was why she had detention for a month.

Imagine her, a head girl getting detention; imagine her with her Outstanding's, and only one Exceeding Expectations - getting  _detention._

This was her first, and last, she supposed. They were nearing the end of the year after all. Not much damage she could do now, she believed, still flabbergasted she'd been punished to lead an example.

 _A month_  - because she'd let the rest of Hufflepuff's get out of hand, since they were celebrating their victory against Slytherin in the final Quidditch match of the year, ultimately making it obvious they were leading in the House Cup.

Of course they'd be celebrating, considering the fact that they'd fallen second after Slytherin for the other six years. It was a butterbeer too much, she suspected, though she supposed the smuggled in firewhiskey did the trick.

None of the other houses went through that sort of thing, they'd regularly get off without a hitch, but she suspected that her lack of command during the whole was the problem. She had been a dutiful head girl up to this point, managing to keep her voice up, and bringing things to a rest. Unfortunately enough she was amidst the celebrations, as much as the others. It wasn't her fault that one of the first years had managed to set the carpet ablaze in their excitement; a simple wave of their wands would have sufficed, except in this particular circumstance all hell had broken loose in the common room.

That was where the firewhiskey had been the problem, certainly when she found herself facing the head of her house and the headmaster, with her head buzzing.

She never thought anyone had spiked her harmless butterbeer, that idea was beyond her, so she supposed it wasn't exactly surprising she'd gotten detention, and that her head girl status had been revoked for the month, " _To set an example."_

She spent the rest of her night fuming in anger, in the privacy of her room, as they did not revoke that bit at least.

Everyone had been talking about it when she turned up at the Great Hall the next day, a sudden clapping coming from several of the other tables, applauding her stupidity, at which she bashfully lowered her head. The Hufflepuff's were torn between amusement and anger. After all, 50 points had been removed, putting them head to head against Slytherin again. They were all aware that none were to blame, though somehow several of them felt it was easier to rest the sole blame on her shoulders.

This did not make her feel any better, especially considering the next month.

Her detention would not be so bad hadn't it been for the fact it would be under Professor Holmes' strict supervision. He was their Professor in Potions, which was the only class she had ever got an Exceeding Expectations in, coincidentally.

Professor Holmes was head of Ravenclaw, a highly methodical man, who spent most of his days convincing everyone he belonged in Slytherin due to his highly anti-social behaviour, and the fact that he spent most of his classes calling them, "Idiots." Unlike Professor Watson who kept Defence Against the Dark Arts, loved by all, and presumably Professor Holmes' only friend.

No one understood why the unlikely pair were friends, though their previous history was highly connected with the Ministry, and Professor Holmes had even been offered a position as an Auror.

A position he'd declined, according to Professor Watson, "He's retired." Retired at 26 seemed quite silly, though no one felt like arguing with Professor Watson. After all, he could charm anyone into submission.

"You're late," he said without looking up from his desk.

His detention was of course set in the bleak confides of the dungeons, where Potions were held, though, despite it, the room was kept meticulously cleaned, painted much brighter than expected, "For you to distinguish your ingredients." All of the students were convinced he lived there, due to the fact that they'd find him there at odd times, either at the crack of dawn, or late into the evening, knowing fully well where the students intended to go or do during the late hour.

He was universally hated because of his particular attention to detail, which no one fully understood, "Not many wizards do," he said, when anyone dared ask him.

There were moments where she believed he was rather charming, though those few instances fell through quite often, despite his looks. Because, notwithstanding the general dislike that centred on the man - no one, especially her could fault him at his appearance.

His robes were clean, dark, and well suited to his well-kept form. One couldn't ignore his youthful appearance either, though he seemed older than the lot of them, due to his piercing blue-green hued eyes, which seemed to have seen their share of horrors throughout the years. With his dark curled hair, high cheekbones, and at times brooding appearance - when he did stalk throughout the hallways of the school, all hearts were a flutter.

Instantly Molly flushed, hoping he was not adept at Occlumency, though it would explain his aforementioned knowledge of everyone's doings at Hogwarts, "Sorry, sir. I was kept by-,"

"A first year, yes. I know you help the younger ones, Miss Hooper – singed your robe, did he?" he said slamming the book he was attending to shut, his eyes turning towards her.

She looked down at herself in surprise, seeing a piece of her robe burnt to a crips, only to look up in surprise, when the spot soon reappeared.

His wand was out to her astonishment, and it was an uncommon sight. Professor Holmes did not often display his magic, except under extraordinary circumstances, and she hardly expected him to know such a spell to begin with, "Oh, thank you – sir," she stuttered, feeling stupid, as she drew off her robes, setting it aside on the desk in front of his.

"You're welcome, Miss Hooper," he said with a bored voice, "Now, for your detention – you will be assisting me in marking papers."

"Sir?" she said shocked, almost losing her footing by the desk.

"Of course if you wish to clear off the first years cauldron's without the use of magic, you are certainly entitled to do so, but I suppose you'll find this exercise of your intelligence much more pleasant," he said bringing forth several parchments, standing up to hand the large pile over to her.

"I – I," she started with the heavy weight in her hands.

"After all you're the best in my class."

She stared at him in disbelief, "You've only ever given me Exceeding Expectations, sir."

He raised a brow at that, letting the parchments rest in her hands, before he then promptly settled behind his desk again.

When she'd stood a minute in silence, glancing down at the stack in her hands he finally looked up, "Begin, Miss Hooper, or do I need to explain in thorough detail how it is done?"

Molly shook her head quickly at that, feeling a bit uneasy by it all. She was surprised he trusted her with such a task, more or less allowing her to pour over the Fifth year's essays, which she marked after how he usually did.

Her brown eyes did flicker up at him from time to time, for he was sitting with another stack, which she supposed was her own year's papers. When she finally did finish, several hours later, feeling annoyed by the sheer ignorance in some of the papers, which concentrated in impressing, though wholly lacking substance, she did sort of agree with him that they were  _idiots._

At least in his eyes they were, though she felt terrible marking some of the students less, than she would, but she had to be fair.

"Sentiment should not cloud your judgement," he said at one point, making her almost drop her quill.

"No – no, sir," she said trying to disguise her surprise over his speaking.

"It is a fault many wizards have, and often leads to more trouble than it should," he said.

His way of viewing the world was cold in her own opinion, though she hoped this was only in marking papers, and not about everything.

When she'd set her quill aside, "You can go, Miss Hooper," he said without looking up, "Until tomorrow night."

* * *

Their detentions were filled with quills scraping on papers, with silence, and the sudden unexpected commentary from him. To begin with he did seem cold, though his eyes gave way too hidden emotion, which she hardly expected from him. It was even more surprising to find him suddenly roaming the hallways, and even taking breakfast in the Great Hall, an unusual sight for all present, "What's the freak doing out from his cave?" one of her classmates had said, and she was surprised to find herself deducting points off.

Several groaned, others were completely at a loss, and she'd stood up with her heavy books, "He's our Professor, and needs…more respect than that." She had heard worse things said about him, really, and even things she'd said herself, but she did not see him like she once had.

Truth be told, he seemed a lonely man.

He had briefly met her eyes from the head table, though she quickly set off, not willing to hear other classmates despair over her – "unfair" treatment of fellow Hufflepuff's.

* * *

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he said, when her hand was on the very edge of cramping from all the writing. She was certain that the students would see the difference in the scrawling's on the papers, her writing was far to pretty, which was why she'd taken to make it a bit unreadable, attempting to mimic his somewhat unclear scribbling.

"Sorry?" she said, "Sir," she quickly added realising her mistake.

He barely blinked an eye at that, his blue eyes steady on hers, as he said, "Thank you."

She did not quite understand what he was thanking her for, though she got it in the end, and only looked down at the Sixth year's papers with a wry smile, "You're welcome, sir."

* * *

His behaviour in class did not alter, though she was surprised when she found an - 'O' marking her recent paper, which she found baffling, as she hadn't seen it as her best work. The essay was faulty at best, with mistakes, and during her second time re-reading it, she did not quite understand why he'd been so kind.

This was a fact she took up on the second week of her detention, "Sir?" she'd said, daring to speak, as she'd been nervously biting at the end of her quill.

"Yes, Miss Hooper?" he said dropping his quill, and stretching out his hand on the desk, clearly feeling the strain of his work.

"I barely deserved an Acceptable on that essay I wrote, sir."

"I found your remarks creative."

"But –  _sir_."

"You lacked passion in your papers, nothing more. Your knowledge is outstanding, though commonly textbook."

"Still-,"

"You have earned it," he said, and she knew when to drop the subject.

* * *

Somehow the quiet evenings with him became her solace in the otherwise loud bustle in her classes, or with her friends. There was something quite organic, sitting with her quill, instead of her wand, marking essays, and allowing the silence to fall between them. She didn't need him to speak, though every time he did, she wished he spoke more, "How come you turned down being an Auror, sir?"

Molly had never asked him such a personal question, neither did she really expect him to answer, "Dull," he said with the corner of his mouth upturned.

"How can being an Auror be dull?" she said astonished.

He looked up at that, "John would enjoy it of course, though I have never been a enthusiast. It is more for those inclined for suspense in exposing their strength, than anything."

"Oh," she said, not sure how to make of the fact that he had addressed Professor Watson so informally, especially to her.

His eyes were down on his desk when he said, "I suspect you will follow the footsteps of your mother, and study healing."

"How – how did you know?"

"No one works hard if they don't have a purpose."

* * *

She realised what had happened.

It was terrible really, for she could not keep her eyes away from him, as the candlelight fell upon his face.

Molly always found a way to ask him about something, often unnecessary, often silly, and in the end his deep voice would make her more nervous, than before she asked.

"What is wrong, Miss Hooper?" he drawled, his expression confused, as she let her eyes drop to her essays.

"Nothing," she said out loud, her mind racing, as she'd realised how much she liked him. She was being a silly schoolgirl, infatuated with her professor, who most likely did not give two straws about her. When she would accidentally meet him in the hallways, however, he would give a brief nod in return, sometimes even a smile. Often he would single her out in class, remarking on her intelligence, unlike the rest, and she felt flushed from it all.

She hoped he did not know. She wished he didn't know, but she assumed he did. More than often she would find him looking at her, a bewildered expression on his face that would drop the instance he caught her returning his glance. It was painful being in his presence all of a sudden, for before it had been distant admiration, now it was want. She did not need to have that clouding her head, as her N.E.W.T.S were coming up soon, but she couldn't help it.

"Are you certain?" he said, and she almost managed to push all of her essays onto the floor, though she quickly recovered.

"Yes, I'm quite fine, sir."

* * *

She felt the tears threaten her eyes when she let the quill finally rest on the desk, the pile of essays marked and finished. Molly had been sitting the last hour, pretending to have still more work to do, and trying to look over several, trying to find more fault in all of it, but she couldn't.

She was only trying to find an excuse to stay longer, and it hurt her that he hadn't spoken throughout the whole, neither had she found her voice amidst it. Somehow knowing that she wouldn't be in his presence like this, made it all unbearable, as she knew she would only be seeing him like a regular Professor.

After all he was nothing more, though, she felt that she'd grown to know him.

She knew by the vague up-turn of his mouth if he was pleased, by the way his eyes would light up during class that he was excited, and by the way he sometimes grew furious in class, that he was more with himself, than with them.

He did care for his students, though he never gave the impression of it, because he wished for them to succeed.

Professor Holmes had not given himself away in any way, he had not done anything particular, than being himself, but she admitted there and then that she liked him. That despite herself she would miss his strange company of silence, and so she stood up from her self-appointed desk, "Goodnight, sir."

He did not say anything in return, her feet sluggishly driving her towards the door, not managing to turn around to see him, as she walked away. It was then, when she had reached for the door that she felt a warm hand covering hers.

She held her breath startled, as his fingers entwined with hers, "Your pulse," he said softly, his hand firm on hers, not letting her go, though she did not try to wrench her hand away from his.

She felt tiny then and there, felt how silly she was, how young she was, but she did not want to leave. She only wished to feel the weight of his large hand on hers, to feel his fingers stroking on her knuckles, almost making her feel faint.

Molly stood her ground, "It's – it's -," his voice faltered, as his hand pressed on her wrist, until his hand finally left hers.

She felt cold all of a sudden, as if it had never happened.

And it felt like it when she turned around.

His back was to hers, as he stood by his desk, "Goodnight Miss Hooper," he said.

Molly almost opened her mouth, though the instant she found the strength to do so, "Goodnight," he repeated.

She ran at that, ran so far her legs could take her, finding herself in her room by sheer will, and burrowed her head in her pillow crying.

* * *

He did not reappear in the Great Hall the morning after, neither was he in class, as Professor Watson took over, "Professor Holmes is sick today, so I will be taking over for a little while." She was the only one who didn't cheer, feeling visibly ill in class, and so it went on for a week.

In the end she herself got sent to the hospital wing, for she barely ate, and barely managed to sleep. She was to be blamed for his disappearance, and she did not know how to feel about it. She knew she would be judged, and she knew he would be sacked if there were any implications of that sort.

When she did get to the hospital wing, she was ushered in with whispers, and given her own sleeping draught to take. Though she was left alone to her own devices, as a Second Year had managed to set himself on fire with a faulty wand. Her eyes were soon drawn to a bed, which was shielded away unlike the rest.

She wondered…was he there?

Molly wandered off to it quietly, pulling aside the curtains, and found his sleeping form in the bed.

He seemed restless, tossing and turning, a crease between his brows, and it pained her to see him like this.

She grabbed his hand, feeling the warmth beneath her palm, and took a deep intake of breath, as he seemed to calm down at that.

A voice tutted in the distance, "I thought so – I just never thought he'd be heartsick," said Madam Hudson, appearing besides her, making Molly take back her hand.

"It'll be fine," said Madam Hudson nodding towards her, and Molly hesitantly took his hand in hers again, tangling their fingers together, "He needs to be touched, I tried my best, but it didn't help really – sometimes you just need someone-," the woman stopped, giving to smile, " – You're not the first, nor will you be the last."

She knitted her brows at that, "Sorry?"

"Oh – no – don't take me wrong – he's not one for regular witches, I mean – you're not the first student to fall for their professor. It might be frowned upon, but it's quite ordinary, believe it or not."

"I don't think-,"

"It's why he's here – couldn't sleep apparently, not much of an eater either, so, here we are."

Molly smiled, and Madam Hudson brought her a chair to sit in. She did not know how long she stayed, or when she fell asleep, only that when she woke up, his other hand was on her cheek.


	8. Cane

**Cane**

She saw he'd been crying again, though he hid it so well sometimes it was difficult to know. His clothes were the same she'd seen him wear a week ago, and she'd promised herself she wouldn't see him again, but she couldn't help herself. Here was John Watson, seeming to be without a friend in the world, less laughter around in his eyes, and quietness she couldn't even begin to comprehend.

His hands are tucked around the mug, but the tea hasn't touched his lips. She's certain it is cold by now, no steam rising from the brew, and she is trying so very hard not to burst out with things.

She isn't supposed to, she's supposed to keep her mouth shut, and just pretend. Pretend that a heavy weight is on her heart as well, and by all means it is, "You should - you should go out," she said, and she's probably said it a thousand times already.

He chuckles lightly, though it catches in his throat, "Yeah, you're probably right." He tries to clear the cobwebs in his mouth, "I've still got a job to do, after all."

"Does Sarah?" she said giving a brief nod, her brows knitting together, and he looks at her with a brief smile.

"No, we – we didn't really work out obviously, because of…"

He doesn't say the name, but it lingers in the air.

"Well, you'll meet someone," she said allowing herself to grin properly.

He's smiling in return, some colour returning to him, "What about you, then?"

He always turns the conversation over to her, she's not used to that, she's used to listening – to taking in every word, and it's a task to say, "No, I'm dating a bit you know – made some silly online profile, but it's – there's nobody like…"

There's that pause again, it's full of her avoiding his eyes, and with him frowning. She shouldn't have said anything, though it is difficult not to go there.

"He was a complete idiot around you," he said breaking the silence.

She looks up from staring in her cup, baffled over the turn, since they'd regularly slide over to another topic if something like this came around. That was how they always dealt with it.

"Sherlock?" she said regretting saying it, but he just shakes his head in what is clear frustration.

"Such a prick, honestly – look at Christmas," he said, and he's laughing all of sudden, "He starts snapping at you for wearing a pretty dress, and ends up making a complete arse of himself - like he always does."

She notes that there aren't any past-tenses being used, tries to ignore it – "Such a prick – and he's dead."

His laugh is hollow now, drifting away, until he slams down his cup of tea on the table, "Sorry," he said quickly, clenching and unclenching his hand, as another hand goes briefly over his leg.

He's been using the cane again, and it hurts to see it.

"My leg," he said with a slight snort, his brows furrowed.

He is staring on her floor, the conversation ending before it actually started, "I better go – you've probably-,"

"No, I -," she starts, but he's off on his feet, slipping on his jacket – before she can properly protest.

With his back turned to hers, a slight hunch in his shoulders, he lingers by her door, "He's not alive, is he?"

"Sorry?" she said baffled.

"Is he alive?" he said again, turning around to face her.

She sees the hope in his face, his eyes searching hers, and she said, "No."

He gives a brief sigh at that, "Right, of course he's – _dead_  -," his eyes are cast down, meeting hers soon, "Let's chat soon – ok?"

"Yeah," she said with an attempt on a smile.

He leaves at that, and she lets herself fall down on her sofa.

* * *

It's night when she hears it – the creaking on the floor. She jumps in her bed alarmed, quietly slipping out of her covers, and trying to find the sharpest object in her bedroom. Her alarm clock certainly isn't good enough, but she takes it, hopeful she might chuck it at someone's face. Somehow the concept of throwing things seems almost pleasant, and she wishes she had enough plates to break. Molly knows who's out there, who's really sneaking about, and even _he_  – he's terrible at keeping himself quiet, but that's because he wants to be found.

The lights are switched on when she gets into the living room, with him sat on her sofa in his familiar coat, "Hello."

"Hi," she said catching him staring at the alarm clock, "Sorry, I thought you were a burglar."

He briefly smirks at that, looking tired, "Come here," he said softly, his blue eyes twinkling in the dark.

Grudgingly, despite wanting to throw the alarm clock on his face she complies, and settles down besides him, with him drawing her near to his side.

She doesn't know if it's for him, or for her, though it is nice to hear him breathe. Nice to feel the texture of his dark coat, his damp curls from the rain outside, and good to feel him solid underneath her fingertips. They've been doing this every time he turns up, though she does not try to read too much into it, but she still does.

Her lips do always end up seeking his at some point, and it's always brief, chaste – with him looking quite curious. She doesn't try harder than that, doesn't feel like she can, though tonight she just tries to listen to his still beating heart instead.

"He'll be fine, Molly," he said.

She's wondering if he is saying that for her, or for him.

He's the one who told her to stay away, though she supposes he's not supposed to be in her flat either. It's dangerous for everyone, but he always seems to risk it.

"How do you know?" she said quietly, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Look," he said, and she does.

John forgot his cane.

She laughs properly now, giving into it fully, as some brief tears are shed in relief. He is just looking at her, mildly amused, and she hates herself for being oblivious, but she doesn't when it is his mouth that seeks hers out this time.


	9. Potion

**Potion**

"It's not that I don't like you."

There it was - the plunge in her stomach, familiar and right on time. It was like a knife, with a thin blade, brief, but good enough to create a lasting scar, "Oh, it's alright," she found herself saying, laughing even, as if it was indeed not a hurtful remark.

"I'd love for us to be friends though, you know, since I couldn't imagine me without you really."

" _Can't imagine me without you – but this is a dumping conversation?"_ she thought hiding her grimace behind her cup of coffee, before he went off to get another one.

Another cuppa and she was sat with him, her fingers wrapped around a napkin tearing it to pieces. Her clock was ticking away, her eyes darting towards it, until she hastily stood up, "I'm so sorry Mark – I've got to go – I'm late for work."

"Right, sorry – for keeping you," he said with a slight raise of his brow.

She tried to seem not bothered as she wandered out, knowing fully well that it was her job that was the problem, or well the fact that she devoted much more time to her job that was (like he did).

Molly had spent most of her life dedicating herself to school, to her studies, to work, and she had papers to be proud of, a well-paying job, and was the best in her field.

A boyfriend seemed like a simpler object really, one that she felt would be obtained some time down the road, and of course she was past  _some time_. She was glad she hadn't exactly jotted down a list about what she wanted in that aspect, since she knew she'd be disappointed with the lack of said boyfriend, as she was in her slightly demented cat.

Molly Hooper had a flat and a cat; that was all really.

She had one friend Meena, who was busy with her kids and her husband. Meena who'd give her wry smiles when she'd tell of another failed date, or missed date, or just failed opportunity ("Well – it is mainly your fault.").

Society at large expected her to be married, and Molly didn't know what she entirely expected. Before she never cared, not once, but then the empty flat started to bother her. Around that time she decided it was time to get some company, and of course it helped having the sound of mewing come from her flat when she approached the front door. It certainly gave the illusion that the cat adored her, and hadn't ruined the one expensive thing in her flat; the quilted white throw she had slung over the sofa. Toby was difficult, and changeable.

One second he'd be sweet enough to sit on her lap allowing her to stroke him, then he'd drop a dead rat on her bed sheets (his own view of good), or stalk around ignoring her, only on occasion getting her attention to badger her for food. Her existence was easy – wake up, eat, feed Toby, go to work, work over-time with no pay, return home, eat, and feed Toby and then sleep.

The routine was getting tiring, though she supposed it was the working over-time that did that. She didn't exactly need to, but…it was difficult to say no. He could pretend to be charming,  _so_  charming sometimes, and it always made her smile, until she understood why that was. Molly would always get it by the time she turned away, her cheeks turning red, until she realised how long she'd probably be staying. Not that she minded his company, for he'd stay there of course with her, often silent, or listening to her natter on, despite herself. She didn't entirely manage silence in his presence, and she hated herself for it.

If her friends would define her as anything, it would be the opposite of mousy, but she did turn a shade of grey in his presence.

This she supposed was something everyone felt, though he'd never really give her too much ill will about it. He'd only ever give her some scathing remark when other people were present really, and that was certainly confusing. One second he'd be alright with her stuttering everything forward, and then he'd tell her to not to joke with anyone else. She didn't wish to listen, not at all, but she did anyway.

Oh, how she loathed him from time to time. If he'd been stupid she wouldn't find him attractive. If he'd been simpering she wouldn't like him at all. If he'd been overly nice it would feel unnatural, and if he wasn't  _him –_ well she wouldn't like him at all. The fact was, if Sherlock was anything other than himself then she would just dislike him, but he wasn't, so she didn't.

In other words he'd ruined her entirely for others, by allowing her to love her job without complaint, as she knew he thought she was good at her job. Being good at something in Sherlock Holmes' eyes meant a great deal more, than some compliment from some other men who'd not understand the complexities of her job.

She wished she'd find a man like him, a man who'd understand, and who'd let her be fascinated with every aspect of her work, but then again – there was certainly no such man. There was neither any cure nor remedy for her situation, as most men wouldn't adapt to her schedule.

Honestly, no man would want to adapt to  _her._

In some ways she didn't mind the idea of being childless, unmarried, and hopelessly infatuated with the consulting detective with his propped up collar. No, she didn't, but she knew that by the emptiness of her flat – that her life at the moment didn't make her feel terribly happy.

If she had some family she'd be all right, but they were all long gone – so every single holiday was spent working shifts no one wanted. Everyone else was busy with his or her family and she only had her cat.

"Molly – you don't mind, do you?" said the voice of Andrew Williams waking her up from her thoughts.

She blinked up at him, feeling the dryness of her eyes, as she stifled a yawn, "It's alright," she said giving to nodding, and he grinned in return.

"You're a lifesaver," he said with a wink, showing off his white straight teeth, before wandering out.

More over-time, but at least with pay this time. She felt tired, though she'd gotten loads of sleep the night before. Her body still couldn't cope with it, and she rested her head with slight defeat on her desk. Molly didn't mind taking the extra shifts or so, as she didn't exactly have anything else going on at the moment.

Of course she didn't know that on this particular night her entire life was going to change, because one man was in denial, and trying to find a solution to his _problem_.

—

The lights were off in the lab, but she flickered them on stifling a groan when she caught sight of the mess. Someone had left their project behind, obviously some of the interns who weren't aware of regulations.

Molly turned off the lights, and considered walking off without clearing it up. Her conscience got the better of her, as she turned the lights on again, and hurried off to tidy up the mess. The ingredients that were displayed mystified her; since usually the things lying behind would be blood samples, or whatnot - things that were clearly from Bart's.

All she saw here was brought in, and she widely wondered if someone was attempting to make drugs.

She giggled soundly at that, and cursed herself for watching too much telly, before she started to empty off some blue liquid in the wash. It didn't smell anything in particular, neither did it do anything extraordinary, and she knew that she was being an idiot by not grabbing some disposable gloves, but she knew her hand was steady enough – it was only a few steps to the wash after all.

Her neglect paid off when the lab door banged open, and a gasp of shock leapt out of her mouth. In few seconds she was splattered by the blue liquid, covering her coat, her face, her hands, and the beaker shattering on the floor, "Fuck," she said hurrying off to wash her hands, not giving the unexpected intruder any time of day, as she washed herself hurriedly. Molly did not feel any pain, or abrasions, or anything. Out of sheer bewilderment - as some of the liquid was on her lips – she licked.

It tasted of blueberry.

Her shoulders slumped at that – someone had been using the lab equipment to make a soda? She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and she turned her eyes towards the lab door. It lay dormant now, no intruder on either side of the door. Whoever had been there had gone, and with a shake of her head she cleared off the rest of the equipment with a sigh.

—

Molly felt oddly stared at when she got to work the next morning, and she wondered what was wrong, when she left the tube trying to spot her reflection on any shiny surface. She looked perfectly normal she reasoned, there was no spot of toothpaste on her face, neither was her blouse open revealing her undergarments.

Yet, she felt eyes turning to her.

The eyes were mostly male, all of them unabashedly staring, and she avoided the eye contact entirely in confusion.

Perhaps she was having a particular good day?

She'd showered after all, but she did that every day to try to push down the scent of death. Obviously today was just one of  _those days._  But she never had those days… Those days belonged to overly beautiful women with long luscious hair, who'd prance around confidently, and she did not prance.

She got to Bart's in the end, eyes turning towards the men whose stares did not waver any less with her staring in return.

Passing the reception, she held tightly to her bag, intending to skip off to the changing rooms, when Andrew approached her. Molly wondered if it was another shift change again, his eyes were downcast on a set of papers in his hands, "Morning…" he started, looking up taken aback, "Molly?"

His usual grin that she was accustomed to was larger than normal, " _Hello_ ," he repeated ignoring the papers in his hands, while she raised her brows.

 _Obviously everyone's odd today_ , she thought, "Hi," she said faltering a bit, as his hand streaked through his blonde hair.

"So…Right…you know I've forgotten," he said wide-eyed, with a chuckle.

Her brows connected at that.

"Well, I better change then," she said intending to barge past him, when he started to walk with her. Andrew never walked with her. He was more interested in exchanging stories of his conquests loudly with the other doctors.

"Mind if I join you?" he said in a low voice.

She stopped in her stride gaping at him, "Sorry?"

"No – I didn't – well – actually – sorry – I just – you look – you look great today," he stuttered forward, clearing his throat soundly, before walking off, almost walking into the nearest door.

_Right…_

The weirdness from that morning didn't disturb her while she worked luckily, though several came in without anything particular to say, just staring at her, "Err – are you ok?" she'd ask, and they'd just nod, before walking off. It didn't hit her truly before lunch that this wasn't some strange happenstance really, when she occupied a table alone like usual – only to find several male colleagues she'd never spoken to sit down by her table.

That was certainly odd, even more so when they let her talk, not trying to show off their knowledge, or undermining hers. She was grateful when she was done however, feeling eyes on her, as she left the cafeteria.

Molly didn't mind attention, not really, but it was disturbing to find no source. She half-expected to find herself naked on the front page of the Daily Mail considering how people were looking at her. She rang Meena however, "Have you ever had one of those days?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where someone's staring?"

"Well, I suppose."

"I don't really mean – someone though – I mean  _everyone_."

"Everyone?"

"They're all acting really strange today."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Ok…well… _maybe_  you should go to bed earlier tonight, then?"

Molly gave up at that, assuming she was just being really paranoid more than anything, but the roses that were stood on her desk told her she wasn't. Especially when roses kept appearing with cards signed by people she didn't even know, but she could only assume worked there.

—

When she was at the lab later that afternoon, inconvenienced from time to time by some colleague who'd pop up for a one-sided chat – she spotted the lab doors slamming open. Coat, dark curls and a pair of searing blue eyes greeted her, and she felt her stomach coil, but she pretended to be occupied, "Hello," she said, trying not to smile at the sight of him.

He held the door open with a curious expression, and she looked up, wondering – just  _wondering_  – if the odd behaviour of the rest had reached him.

"Molly," he said with a brief nod, slipping off his scarf and coat, "Do you have the test results of a Mr Peterson's blood?"

"Not here."

"Do you mind?" he said with that familiar false smile of his.

She frowned.  _Of course he wouldn't – typical,_  she thought walking out to fetch him the test results. And yet she was pleased despite herself that he was at least acting normal.

"John," she said almost walking on the man who'd been standing outside the lab doors with his arms crossed.

"Oh," he said taking a step back, laughing a bit, before he looked at her funny, "Wow – Molly –  _hello_."

She stared at him for a second –  _not him too_  – "Oi! Where's Sherlock – then? He told me he knew who killed Peterson," said the familiar voice of Lestrade who walked down the corridor, taking to walk slower upon approaching them, "Molly! Hello!"

Both men were staring at her with vacant expressions, grinning, "I've got to go-," she said eyeing them nervously.

First of all John was engaged, and Lestrade was still married, yet both of them were acting funny. Greg had even pocketed his hand, trying to hide away his ring finger.

"Where?" both men said in unison, soon looking at one another with brief annoyance flickering over their faces.

"Um, I've got to get some results, just - so you can finish the case."

"Oh, right," said Greg with a nod.

John said, "I'll keep you company if you want."

"We'll  _both_  keep you company," said Greg with a glare at John.

"It's alright, honestly – I can get it on my own," she said starting to walk away, except Greg blocked her path.

"Detective Inspector," said a voice, and Molly was surprised to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, "I think Molly can manage on her own, don't you agree?" he said.

"Obviously you want her for yourself," said Greg angrily.

"What?" said Molly.

Everyone had gone mad. Honestly, that was it. They'd turned mental, or she was dreaming, or  _she'd_  gone mad. The latter seemed the likeliest, "No – I do not want her," scoffed Sherlock, and despite herself the remark stung. He didn't need to heavily underline it, of course the way he possessively took her arm at that point did sort of contradict his statement, "Oh," she said softly, as both John and Greg were walking towards her and Sherlock.

He was pulling her away by the elbow, and she caught a glimpse of several other males who were walking down the hallway, purposively heading into their direction.

"Molly – you follow regulation?" said Sherlock who was dragging her along, his steps increasing in speed, and soon she was running alongside of him.

"Yes," she bit out, glancing briefly behind her, watching more and more men following the pair of them.

"Then why the _hell_  did you not use gloves?" he snapped, and she gaped at him return.

Being promptly shoved into a car, forced to skive off work, which she'd never done in her life was nerve-wracking – having Sherlock fling her ringing camera phone out of the open car window certainly made her cross, "Why?" she'd gasped, peering out of window to get a glimpse of it being smashed by the wheel of a car behind them.

There was not much love lost there, if one were to ignore the myriad of images of Toby forced into ridiculous clothing, which he then promptly obliterated with his claws the next day (it was only for laughs really).

"Your phone was ringing, obviously they will have noticed you've gone missing from Bart's Molly, or didn't the crowd of men give it away?" he said scathingly besides her, his phone in the palm of his hand, texting hurriedly.

A woman with dark hair was driving the sleek black car, and Molly didn't really know what to say, neither did she understand what was going on, "How did you know I spilt the – liquid - from last night?"

Sherlock took a breath at that, "It was mine."

"Yours?"

"An experiment gone wrong, obviously. I found it at Baskervilles, if you remember?"

He had mentioned long ago that he'd nicked some of files over there for her and his benefit. Highly illegal of course, which was why she hadn't exactly gone through the memory card he'd given her. She felt more inclined to burn it than anything else, since she knew it was top-secret after all.

"I intended only to test it, of course when I returned - it was all cleared off."

"What was it supposed to do?" she asked, suddenly aware that the woman who was driving was staring at them through the rear-view mirror, though the woman quickly turned to the road at Molly's questioning glance.

"The opposite of what it did," he said sounding annoyed.

"Ok," she said slowly, not really understanding, until, "So…everyone back there – they were – influenced by what I got on me?"

"Yes."

"I thought I'd been having a good day," she said with a nervous laugh, which he typically did not share.

"Of course now we will have to get you into hiding."

"Hiding?" she said gaping, "But my-,"

"My brother will take care of it, from a certain distance of course, as meeting you would cloud his judgement."

She didn't feel like believing any of it, it sounded like some terrible joke made on her expense. Honestly it had to be, and especially considering, "How come it doesn't affect you?"

He opened his mouth slowly at that, his eyes briefly going to her, before they darted down on his phone. Even the woman driving was staring now, not even taking to pretend she wasn't listening, "I made it, Molly. Do keep up."

"So you're immune, then?" she said blinking furiously.

"Yes."

"Ok," she said falling silent.

If there was one thing he was immune to it was definitely her charms, "Where am I – hiding?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

She imagined her flat really, or Baker Street, well, she would  _like_  to hide in Baker Street, but then again she'd probably be holed up in a really shabby - the car stopped –  _a hotel –_ the Café Royal to be precise. In terms of a forced holiday with room service and no work – it wasn't the worst of situations, despite the fact that she still didn't quite believe the concept that all men at the moment wanted her. It was hardly like Sherlock to be tight-lipped in regards of scientific studies really, as that was one of the topics that would secure his mouth to loosen. Upon exciting the car that soon drove off, Sherlock shrugged off his coat, and handed it to her, "For the smell," he said absentmindedly, the phone soon pressed at his ear, "Mycroft – have you secured a room?"

She took the coat off his hands, though she didn't entirely know what he meant. The notion that a  _love potion_  if that was what Sherlock had managed to concoct felt more amusing than anything else, but she didn't smell, did she? He looked at her with furrowed brows, and she quickly threw on the coat drowning in the fabric, "Yes," he said on the phone, grabbing her by the elbow again, before they both were striding to the entrance.

The man who held open the door for them stared at her, and she felt herself push into Sherlock out of sheer surprise. It couldn't actually be true, could it? It seemed like one of those fantastic stories one read in – Harry Potter for God's sake. Love potions didn't exist besides in the realm of fiction. Couldn't it just be that she looked rather good today, like several had said? Not that it was something several had said after all, it had been agreed upon by every single male in Bart's, and now by the look several of the men at the reception were giving her.

Did it enhance pheromones? She had read up on topics regarding the matter numerous times. Not on the topic of love potions, but on the increase of attractiveness in females during ovulation. This wasn't as much of a theory, since legitimate doctors and the occasional woman's magazine supported it.

But she supposed if it was actually true her attractiveness had increased  _tenfold_. After all it wasn't every day she was chased out by men from work - holding hands with Sherlock Holmes.

She tried looking properly out for it now, staying close to Sherlock who was keeping her close in turn, "Sherlock Holmes," he said to the receptionist.

"Room 101," the woman said cheerfully handing over the plastic card, as Sherlock only gave a brief nod in return.

"We'll talk upstairs," he said in a low voice, his eyes darting around in the room, and she mirrored this action. Everyone who was male was looking at her, and she was surprised to find Sherlock's hand tightening around her elbow.

—

When they'd gotten to the room after the harrowing journey in the elevator, where several of the men followed them to their floor, attempting to chat to her, "Hello love, what brings you here?"

She'd almost replied out of sheer politeness, "No," Sherlock said for her, and she kept silent at that.

They got into the room, with him slamming the door after her, and with her taking off his coat, "Obviously we will have to device a cure – my brother is already attempting to replicate what I did, but considering his staff – it might take a while," said Sherlock.

"So I suppose a quick shower won't make it go away?" she said giggling.

"You've already showered today, Molly," he said pointedly.

Of course he noticed, he always noticed those things. A pound here - a scar here – clean hair – dirty hair. One was made eerily conscious in his presence.

She frowned at him. This was after all technically his fault, "How come you couldn't do it at Baker Street – why Bart's?" she asked knowing fully well of the chemistry set he owned, and the expensive microscope too. The man had enough of toys and gadgets, yet he persisted in coming to Bart's (sometimes complaining over the poor out-dated equipment they had).

He looked for a second upset, baffled even by this question, until the steely gaze he usually carried masked his face, "You're hiding something," she said before she could stop herself, "Sorry," she added quickly, hating herself more for apologising.

"Molly," he said with a stern expression, the one used to keep her quiet, but she ignored it.

"What were you actually making, then?"

His brows knitted together, as he strode in the room – his hands in his pockets, "I've already told you."

She settled down on the bed, her hands on the soft sheet, as she followed him with her eyes, "You told me you were looking for the – opposite – oh  _– a not_  – love potion?" Another laugh escaped her mouth, "Who could  _you_ fancy?"

He looked hurt, for a millisecond, his blue eyes turning to her quickly, before turning to the wall behind her.

Oh.

_Oh._

She didn't know what to say, nor did she need to as his phone went off, "I'll take this in the other room," he said softly, walking away.

 _It can't be_ , she thinks.  _He wouldn't – no._ She tries very hard not to fiddle with the sheets of the bed, straining to listen to the muffled conversation he's having on the other side of the door. He's been talking for about a minute already, yet it feels reasonably closer to an hour.

Then she hears him rather bellow out,  _"What?"_  He sounds absolutely horrified, which certainly catches her off guard.

She jumps a bit in her position, hastily sorting herself out when he walks back into the room, throwing his camera phone onto the bed giving her a brief look.

"What's going on?" she asked looking up at him carefully, trying to ignore what he'd previously said, and the fact that he's staring. Sherlock in love with her was ridiculous – and trying to get out of it – on the verge of offending.  _No, actually offending,_  she thought.

"They've found a cure," he said looking a bit pale.

"Ok…and what is it?" she asked keen to return back to being ignored by all men, and not  _just_  him. Despite the fact that he might…oh, she didn't want to think more about it really.

He's avoiding looking at her now, hands in his pockets, clearing his throat slightly, before he then meets her eyes, "Sex."

Molly was used to a lot of things – having lunch after dealing with a corpse that had spent some time in the water, and just in general eating after seeing things others would consider scarring. Sherlock saying  _sex_ however, that was rather earth shattering in a way, "Sorry?" she said wide-eyed, leaning forward with her hands on her knees.

She was still in her coat from work, perhaps she was still at work, and her mind had just wandered amidst her paperwork. Maybe she wasn't even there, for it felt like an out of body experience, "You heard me," he said with a crease between his brows.

There was always a chance she was wrong, that perhaps there was some residue stuck in her ears, and she had just wanted to hear him say those words, "Did I?" she said, which isn't really a question directed towards him, as it is directed to the room itself that has only two occupants – and a bed.

"Yes," he bites out, looking rather cowed, like she's said something utterly stupid. The seconds are ticking away, he's avoiding to look at her, and she just stares at him.

"Really?" she said out loud, the laugh escaping her mouth, until it's all she can do. Honestly, it's not often she hears that sex is the answer to a problem, especially that one being that every male in her presence wants her. Well, except him – who apparently wants her, but doesn't want her at the same time. There is really no wonder she feels confused, longs for reason amidst all of this, and wishes he hadn't broken her phone. This only makes her laugh more. She's stuck in a hotel room with him, and he tells her that the cure to her dilemma is sex – it sounds like some rubbish porn movie, "Really?" she said in a louder voice this time, bursting into more laughter, "With who?"

"Obviously," he said with a slight raise of his eyebrows, and he looks quite serious. He's obviously hinting towards them having the sex. In some ways it isn't a daydream, more a nightmare, depending on the fact that he looks like he'd rather eat a deerstalker.

Her laughter dies out at that, "But why?" she asked. It was stupid, the whole thing was stupid, and she'd rather go home hide underneath her duvet than anything else.

"The endorphins will…" he takes a breath at that, "…release… _Molly_." He certainly seems aggravated, even flustered by the hint of red in his cheeks. He's blushing. Sherlock is blushing.

She opens her mouth to say something, but decides against it. There's a reason she's in trouble after all – the man fancies her, and  _doesn't_  want to fancy her. That sounds like the general description of herself really, and she doesn't know whether to be cross or just accept that everything about him is difficult.

She frowns, "Well, ok, then – I'll go pick someone out, shall I?" she said, skipping off the bed, dusting off her clothes, intending to go towards the door. She's not actually happy, she doesn't actually want to go, but what else is she going to do. Stay there with him? In silence?

No, she can't.

She won't.

His hand is on the door when hers hits the knob, "No," he said, "You can't go out there."

"I'm not in danger," she said trying to jerk the door open, feeling more and more annoyed by his presence, "Honestly, I'll just have it out with someone – right? And this will all be over."

"It has to be me."

She raises a brow at that, "Right…ok…let's have the sex, then, shall we? Come on with the sex." She sounds hysterical, in fact her voice doesn't sound like it belongs to her, high-pitched and crazed. She has all reason to be angry, all reason to be annoyed, and it certainly doesn't help when he grabs her to him, flush against his chest, "What are you doing?" she says rather faintly, staring up at him with her mouth open.

"What I should have been doing months ago," he murmured, his awkwardness gone, though his cheeks are still faintly red, and she's still gaping.

"What's – what's that, then?" she said, unsure for a few seconds if he's quite serious. She's almost unable to shut her mouth, gaping stupidly up at him, and presently feeling the quite palpable  _evidence_  in his dark trousers.

She's trying to remain composed. If composed was to remain open-mouthed that is, with her palms on his chest, and his arms tentatively on her waist.

Sherlock's blue-green hues are staring down on her, while the grip he has on her is solid. Not that she feels entirely like moving, or knows if she can. The corners of his mouth turn upwards, and an eyebrow is slowly raised "I think you know," he said in reply.

"I do?"

"Yes."

It's quite telling what he's about to do - what she's been wanted him to do for ages, and it's all seems faintly like some impossible dream. Here he is, unaffected by the  _love potion_  (stupid term, she knows, but what else to call it?), with the solution being sex, and he's suggesting…

Sherlock… _Sherlock_ …who has a magnificent brain, and who even under any sort of influence would be too clever for his own good, "Oh no," she said almost groaning loudly, well, actually she does groan. She disentangles herself from him, being mindful of his kicked puppy expression, and said with a sad brow, "Give me your phone," with her hand out, standing away from him, trying to regain her strength.

"What?" he said baffled.

"You haven't actually spoken to Mycroft, have you?" she said with her hands on her hips, "You've – you've obviously been influenced by-," she tries to look fine, except she knows what the running did – the sweat – the adrenaline, "This – this isn't  _you_."

She's pointing at him, though she drops her hand, and he looks utterly bewildered, "Yes - it is," he finally bites back, looking horrendously offended.

"OK – prove it," she said, "Tell me when you started to fancy me, because you'd know when."

A part of her is loathing herself for not giving into what she wants, another congratulates herself for being so strong, and the third bit; the third part really  _really_ hopes that he does know. That she is wrong, that the conversation with Mycroft was real, and that – "12:03."

"What?" she said.

"April the second, 2008 – the time was approximately 12:03 – when you walked in - or do you want me to be more specific?" he said, glimpsing at his watch for a second.

Her memory was certainly not that precise, she only recalled it was in spring, "You were wearing underneath your coat - a pink blouse with blue polka dots – slightly see-through – with a pale blue brassiere underneath," he continued, stepping towards her.

He had made a terrible comment that day about her blouse, and she never wore it at work after that.

"You…" he took a breath, "Leaned forward at 12:08."

His palm is on her cheek, he's half-smiling, and she's gaping like an idiot again.

Is it just a trick?

She does not know, she doesn't want to know.

"12:15 – you made me laugh at some terrible joke of yours, and 12:17 I swore not to act on it."

His lips are pressed together, his face thoughtful.

"You've done…a good job there," she said with a small voice, allowing herself a laugh.

The corners of his eyes crinkle upwards, his eyes cast down briefly towards - his watch – "21:23 - I decide to."

She doesn't ask this time, shutting up for once, not trying to fill the silence, and allowing it to happen. Despite reason trying to dictate her.

No, not reason – fear – fear what tomorrow will bring.

Tonight has in store something entirely different, and she feels it in the way his mouth aligns with hers. It's soft at first, brief taps upon her mouth, until it bends over to desperation. It's hungry, coarse, almost angered, when she feels her back on the bed, and she briefly wonders if he's tricked her.

Thoughts flitter away when his mouth, the warmth of his body meets hers on the bed. And she lets herself forget, wills herself to be in the ´now´ to not to conclude with the worst, until all evidence is given. Her clothes are flung away, so are his, forgotten to the floor, partly torn apart. A cloud of lust is hanging around his face, and that's enough to undo her.

She barely knows how he removed the layers of clothing so quickly, so easily, when his mouth is on her breast, or when his hand is between her thighs. His breath is laboured, so is hers, when he pushes into her. Words ease out of her mouth, as the bedframe repeatedly slams into the wall. No words can describe the relieved expression on his face, reappearing by every touch she gives into, and by every which she bestows. With that she knows entirely that if there is one thing that has affected him – it's her.

15:05: "I stipulated it only needed to be done  _once_ ," said the voice of Mycroft Holmes rather bored on the phone, "There is no need to use the resources of our country – so – you can - - - put your trousers on!"

"No," was the reply.


	10. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on most of the 'drabbles' will contain spoilers for SERIES THREE.

He had read up on all the symptoms. All of them in a different range depending upon the source, making him second-guess if there was any solid cure to his  _disorder_. 

Sherlock knew that ‘not hungry’ was decidedly not something he could claim as irregular. Neither were sleepless nights an unfamiliar fly in his ointment with his overactive mind.  

He didn’t function like regular humans following base instincts, yet he knew by the sting that he somehow felt like a phantom upon his cheek that he was  _in love_  with her.

Just thinking the words made him irritated, narrowing his eyes, as he longed for a case, anything to distract him, but everything had gotten so dull. He’d avoided Bart’s like the plague if he could, even after his sudden return upon Moriarty’s resurrection.

Of course he had appeared during those lethal nights, biting down the venomous comments that threatened to burst about ‘Jim from It’ -  _her office romance_ – the man strapping bombs on people for amusement.

He could practically hear John’s voice in his head again  _‘Jealous?”_  He had never been envious of  _meat-dagger_. Never, not once…Except wanting to avoid Baker Street due to Janine – saying it was national importance to seize Molly’s bedroom - was perhaps the ‘opposite of not-jealous’, as John had asked why Molly was cross with him (beyond his drug-usage that was).

He didn’t intend to ruin the engagement. He had indeed wished for her happiness, and it was obvious that it was never going to last if something so trivial tore them apart. That was pure luck, nothing else.  

Yes, he had a problem meeting her eyes at certain points of their conversations these days. She didn’t have trouble speaking with him anymore, bringing up such nonsensical things such as her activities – loads of sex (again, he was  _not_  jealous). She had grown much more, extended far beyond where he thought she was, and yes – he  _smiled_  at the thought.

Sherlock cringed at his own idiocy – no wonder every case became dull at contemplation, no wonder he was terribly restless…

It was the slap, or  _slaps_ that made him aware of the fact. Of how lacklustre the kisses bestowed upon him by Janine felt, of how he wanted to run away, of how, when the thought of leaving  _her_ behind – became almost intolerable.

He felt unworthy when he had found his hands covered with blood, imaging the same expression of anger, of disbelief etch itself in her face. He didn’t want to see that expression any more. Once was enough, once was all he needed to see.

Despite understanding his ailment, it did not make the solution to it any easier to find. Regular people would perhaps tackle it immediately, like she once had –  _“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee?”_ Him asking her the same question would certainly be misconstrued, deflected and he’d be bringing her a cup of coffee – which happened.  

There were physical acts he could certainly take to do, like touching her wrist, though there was a chance she would misconstrue it, “Are you checking my pulse?” - which she had.

He didn’t know if she liked him anymore, if his actions – all of them – hadn’t caused such loathing within her to only find him ‘tolerable’ in her working-environment. She was being paid to be there - he was not - but she never questioned him appearing like clockwork every day finally submitting to her siren call.

Neither did she question his helpfulness, otherwise than thanking him. Nothing in her appearance gave way to that she was at all interested in his being there. 

It was amidst this all-too consuming thought that he knew he had to do something, and he knew from a too often revisited memory that made certain parts of him ache - what he should do. He remembered her silly Christmas jumper, the lack of any sparkle in her eyes at the thought of  _everyone being busy with Christmas_  - “Molly, what are you doing for Christmas?” he asked.

She looked up in surprise, blinking up at him from behind her goggles, “Sorry?”

“Christmas – this year – what are your plans?”

“Oh, well….” she looked thoughtful, “I’ll probably just stay in.”

“Would you like to join me for Christmas dinner at my parents? As…my date?”

Her expression was one of intense bewilderment, though no displeasure seemed to cross her features, so the idea wasn’t repulsive to her, but it still took several blinks before she answered “Umm…ok.”

“Good,” he said smiling, while she stared at him with the same curious look. He looked away; finding her brown eyes peering up at his a little unnerving, “Well – goodnight,” he said striding out without another word or look at her. 

* * *

 

“She sounded surprised,” he said feeling rather baffled, and somehow disappointed.

John was looking at him silently, his hand underneath his chin, as he nodded slowly, before he said, “At least you know where you have her.”

Sherlock frowned, “What?”

John was suddenly grinning quite a lot, “Not many women make that kind of commitment in -  _July_.”

 


	11. Shot

She hadn’t needed to know. At which stage did Molly need to know Mary had shot him (a fact she wouldn’t rejoice over, quite the opposite, possibly ruining their budding friendship), or that he almost had been sent out on a suicide mission?

Of course the ‘7 times a night’ and ‘mr-shag-a-lot’ was something he couldn’t conceal, however, she had spent those three months leading up to Christmas in complete silence.

The kind of silence he found unnerving from her. He had been avoiding Bart’s, and he assumed she’d be up to old tricks, but she wasn’t.

She wasn’t being overly helpful; neither was she asking him personal questions, or bothering him in any kind. No, she was calm. Mycroft had suggested - ‘You have to talk to her considering her association with James Moriarty – I suspect she will be in the line of fire,” truth be told he was irritated.

Previously the idea of Moriarty with her had been fleeting, an amusing thought, that drifted out of his consciousness quite quickly, but at Jim’s resurrection it resurfaced with gusto. Questions that had previously not been raised appeared, and he found himself scrolling through her old blog for ‘data’. Somehow Molly’s ‘it was all a lie,’ (her last entry) did not soothe his mind whatsoever, and he found himself going to Bart’s.

London was eerily quiet, right before the storm was rounding up he suspected, as Moriarty was certainly biding his time. He found her in the lab, alone for once, working quite diligently. This was a look that best suited her, business-like with a stern expression plastered on her face, which he realised appeared due to him…

“Molly,” he said attempting to adjust a soft smile to his features.

“What?”

Her words were bare, so unlike her, as she snapped off her gloves. She was giving up working, but it was not to devote her full attention to him, as her hands were shaking, “You’re angry with me.”

He wasn’t posing it as a question, though her little snort, and roll of the eyes certainly made it seem so. Her shoulders were drawn back, her posture serious, and her arms crossed, “So?”

Sherlock wished he knew why he was there, what the point of his entering had been – he’d been upset that she – no – no –  _he wasn’t._  Of course he wasn’t. Why should he care? There was no reason for him to care, “I’m sorry?” he said, his mind drawing a blank, and the words departing much too soon. He barely knew as to why he was apologising, a thing she quickly picked up on, as her eyebrows were drawn together. 

“Why?”

“Umm…obviously I hurt you…regarding Janine?” he said slowly, catching every nuance of change in her face.

He had said something spectacularly stupid,  _very_ by the look of her face, for her eyes were looking past him, quite straight through him, before they flitted back to his face focusing, “Mary told me about that, you –  _used_ – Janine to get into an office?” 

He felt very tempted to inform her that Mary had shot him, since the look she was giving him was worse in some ways than his being ‘not clean’, “You proposed?” said Molly, while he remained silent, unable to entirely calculate what he could say to salvage the situation.

“It was for a case,” he said, sensing his neck and back tense. 

She frowned up at him, and somehow despite her being much shorter than him – she looked spectacularly tall at the moment, “You tricked her into thinking you loved her, that you wanted to marry her – to get into  _an office_ , and because it was for a case – that’s okay?” 

The question was rhetorical, he knew it, and he heard it, but the answer was on the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, her expression livid as he spoke, and she said, “You’re just like him,” her words burrowing into his chest.

Before he could ask whom she said, “Jim,” with bitterness in her voice, “Sherlock…just – go.” Regularly when something went wrong, it was her who left – not him – but this time she had sent him away. He wished he’d been shipped off, somehow it seemed easier knowing he only had ‘six months’ instead of facing the unknown.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

John was frowning at him from his chair, “Glad you’re back…so – Mary told me what happened.” He had gotten to Baker Street at some point, how that had happened he’d almost forgot. 

He didn’t reply, he wasn’t supposed to be ‘focusing’ on this.

The game was on. 

Moriarty was back, her  _ex_ , who never understood that she had mattered – “You know, I’m just going to say it – you having a girlfriend wouldn’t shock me-,”

“What?” he said. 

“ – I know I was a bit –  _put off_  – by you and Janine, but that was because it was you and…Janine. Honestly, she doesn’t seem like your ‘type’.”

“And what is my type, then?” he said with a sigh.

John grinned, “If you haven’t gotten it by now-,”

“Molly? You’re suggesting –  _Molly_  – Molly Hooper?”

John only nodded, a slight smile at his lips.

He was about to protest, there were many reasons to why he should – the possibility of hurting her (a thing he was already rather good at), the danger she might be in, and a myriad; all the little quibbles were concerning her feelings. “Oh,” he said softly, before he finally spoke five minutes later - “Do you mind if I tell Molly that Mary shot me?”


	12. Hiding

She’d unlocked the door, kicked off her shoes, dropped her keys in the bowl, and shrugged off her coat. She had done everything, everything she considered normal, but she had that trickling sensation of  ‘wrong’ poking her behind the back of her shoulder blades. She didn’t know why, just something was ‘off’. Molly turned on the lights properly, switching on lamps, pulling at curtains, but still…there it was…that  _nagging_ sensation.

It was of course right at the moment she was about to laugh off her paranoia, curse herself for being over-worked and tired – that she heard a distinct creak from inside her bedroom, “Hello?” she squeaked, regretting the words the second they leapt out of her mouth, “I mean…oh…” The door was shut, a thing she didn’t recall having done, as she’d bolted out of her flat almost halfway into her clothes.

She reached for the handle, eyeing her cat Toby peering up at her with his alarmingly green eyes, as she slammed the door open with a bang.

She gaped, “She – sher –  _oh_ ,” she said in a less frightened voice, a decidedly more bored voice.

There he was with his hands steepled underneath his chin, lying on her bed, obviously away in his mind palace. She felt like slamming the door shut repeatedly, for she could see he was in the middle of something, and at least then he might actually come to.

She wanted to sleep.

Yes, in her bed.

Before when he’d pop round she’d take the sofa, mostly because she loathed arguing with him in general, well, generally she hadn’t been able to argue actually, “Sherlock,” she said.

His eyes were on her ceiling, “Sherlock,” she repeated.

He only blinked slowly, while she released a frustrated sigh.

“SHERLOCK,” she snapped.

“What?” he said with a raised brow. He was clearly aggravated at being interrupted, and she didn’t have a lot of empathy considering his inconvenient placement.

“Are you going to stay here all night?” she asked.

He frowned, “As long as it takes,” he said, turning his eyes upwards again.

“Ok,” she said annoyed, getting ready for bed.

She was not going to take the sofa.

No, she was going to sleep in her bed with or without him.

Obviously he was also going to actually be in the bed, _obviously_ , but she really didn’t mind. He’d just have to tolerate that she was there as well. However she became distractingly self-aware getting ready for bed, constantly having to remind herself that his eyes didn’t in fact follow her around, or that he wouldn’t mind her walking with just a tea-cosy on her head. He’d probably not even blink if she wandered around naked, but she wasn’t exactly going to test that theory out.

She pulled at the duvet on the side of the bed he wasn’t occupying, and slipped underneath her covers, turning off lights, and whatnot. Molly shut her eyes, willing sleep to meet her in the middle, tempting her away, instead of reminding her of the ‘mr shag-a-lot’ lying besides her. It wasn’t like she believed any of those stories, it was the tabloids, and as if she ever liked Janine. She found herself snorting, a thing she utterly failed disguising, “What’s - funny?” she heard him drawl behind her.

“Nothing,” she said unable to disguise the amusement in her voice.

“Molly.”

“You had a girlfriend,” she said.

No, she wasn’t bitter. What was the point of being bitter? What would that gain her? Except more frustration? Yes, she’d broken off with Tom because she hadn’t gotten over  _him,_ but she wasn’t going to be miserable about it. No, she was cross because he’d been well – to quote John – a dick. He’d been gone for a month, a month, dabbled in drugs and gotten himself a ‘girlfriend’. Of course he’d have to be high to at all manage to maintain a relationship, this was no surprise to her, “You. A girlfriend,” she said.

Ok, perhaps she sounded a bit bitter.

“It was for a case.”

“You did  _a lot_  for a case.”

“Yes.”

“And that makes all of it ok?”

He’d grown silent, and she wondered if he’d wandered off again – into his mind palace, thinking of God knows what, but a long sigh revealed he was intending to answer her, “I-,” he started.

“How did it feel?” she said, and she couldn’t hide that she was scared, possibly even frightened of him.

He hesitated some more, “I don’t know…” 

“You killed a man.” 

“Yes – but -,”

“In cold blood.”

He didn’t say anything, “Are you okay?” she said carefully, letting her words sink in.

There was a long pause, where she only heard him breathing, “No.” 

“I thought as much,” she said smiling sadly, as she turned around to face him, “Just lay down on me, ok – it’s alright – I know this doesn’t mean anything – so just shut up.”

He looked at her, eyes wide, “But – why would I-,”

“Need someone to hold you? I don’t know. Why are you here?”

It took a few seconds, at first she expected him to hold around her, but he grabbed her hand pulling her towards him. He held her hand, their fingers soon entangled, as he let her rest on his chest – listening to his heartbeat.  

He’d been shot - he could have died – he almost got sent out of the country – Jim was back –  _everything_  was falling to pieces really. She had expected him to be elsewhere, chasing after clues, doing something, but here he was, “Thank you,” he said softly into her hair, dropping a kiss on her head.

 


	13. Pressure

He was out there somewhere, Moriarty, the Houdini of crime, and it was now Molly elected to be unhelpful. No, she was helpful, but she didn’t ‘speak’. If he compared her silence to her regular nattering’s he would have picked the silence any day, but that was then, this was now. Jim had after all, “been your boyfriend,” though she did not come with any comment, or apology at that remark, only narrowing her eyes at her papers, before she scuttled out of the lab – “Fine,” he said to the empty space of the lab.  

It was the opposite of fine, the quick way she’d move, seeming unable to stay in the same room as him, and he wondered whether or not she was thinking of their last encounter. He had certainly needed those slaps, “I do forgive you, you know,” he’d said smirking when he thought he’d figured it out, except she had left heaving a sigh.

He supposed then it was her engagement, “Why did – you – and…” he’d forgotten the idiot’s name. What was the point of storing someone who wasn’t staying any longer anyway?

Obviously she wasn’t going to marry an idiot.

She was exhaling quite soundly at that, her pen almost digging into the sheets of paper she held on her clipboard –  _perhaps not_  – “Umm…so,  _you_  ended it then?” he said turning his head to face her with a slightly confused expression.

She stared at him point-blank in return, filled with disbelief, “Yes,” she said with gritted teeth, about to walk off.

The social custom was to ask ‘Why?”

She had her back to him, her body poised for the exit, but she turned around slowly, “Because I’m still in love with you,” she said with a slight shrug, her nerves only displayed by the increase of blood in her cheeks, before she disappeared off.

“Oh.”

* * *

 

He had expected John, of course it would be John  - his pressure point – his best friend, but, “You didn’t expect this,” her voice echoed, her expression calm, “Quite the turn up – oh – look at me repeating old lines, with new faces, well - old faces – we’ve had  _fun_. Oh, yes, she’s…dirty.” He saw the obvious discomfort in her face. He was being presented with a ‘lie’, it was telling on her face, “Old Molly here…should’ve picked her, Sherl – more fun…”

* * *

 

She was unconscious, as they’d given her enough morphine to subdue the pain, making her drift off.

He was standing by the bed when John appeared by his side, “Sherlock?” 

He didn’t reply, unable to say anything, as his fingertips were pressed on her wrist, feeling the slow drum of her pulse.  

* * *

 

She didn’t seem to question him being in her flat. Neither did she question it when he slept in the same bed as her. No, she still didn’t speak, and he felt he didn’t deserve her words.

He didn’t deserve anything from her, especially…her. 

“Molly,” he spoke softly, his hand holding hers tightly, “I’m sorry.”

“Ok.”


	14. Charade

She closes the locker, “Molly,” she whips around, a beaming smile on her face, but his face is serious, “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

He breaks into a smile at that, his brows furrowed, as he seems to be thinking. She hoped for a quick reply, something to comfort her that she was seeing him wrong - this is two years after - _two years_  - she’s not supposed to see him anymore.

But here he is, always. 

Finally he tells her, “John has a girlfriend,” he said, and she starts to laugh, but it catches in her throat, “He doesn’t know that she is in trouble.”

"Trouble?" she echoed, hurriedly shutting her mouth, as he explains. He talks about ‘Cam’, about Mary’s _family,_ of how he needs  **her**  to be safe, of how Mycroft has devised a plan, and hired someone to be - “My fiance?” she said, as he slips her the ring. “But why would I be in trouble? Why would I-,”

He stops in his stride, he’s been pacing, the words shooting rapidly out of his mouth, “Because - because - he’d think - just… _please_?” He doesn’t say anything else, and she feels he’s said enough. Truly he’s said enough, and she stares at him - _it’s been two years_  - to be honest; she’s felt like she’s been waiting, perhaps waiting for this.

She just bites her lip, “Ok,” she said without tormenting him any longer, for she sees he is agitated, and then he informs her that they are being watched.

That is the last safe space, this little locker room, and from now on they have to think before they speak, “Come to Baker Street tomorrow, he’ll expect me to want to see you - but friendly.” He doesn’t say anything else, and she doesn’t understand it exactly. They aren’t…friendly?

She twirls the newly placed ring on her finger unsurely. 

* * *

 

"Dinner?" she let it slip, didn’t think at all, because she wonders if he wants to. He looked so nervous, so unsure and she feels stupid, but he doesn’t brush her off either. But she isn’t supposed to want to have dinner when she’s supposedly engaged, and she twirls the ring once more. 

* * *

 

"And you thought he was the love of your life?" he said, and he turns to look at her, she feels it, but she doesn’t return the gaze.

She can’t. 

* * *

 

He’s lighter, she feels it, but she senses the heavy weight on his shoulders. She has never been good at lying, pretending that she doesn’t understand what this is - a game - fibbing about her ‘Tom’, a name she drew out from the air - they’ve got pictures - a background story - everything - she read the file about their relationship, monitored by Mycroft who had said, “I selected a likely candidate.” 

She blanched when she saw the photo of him, “But he looks…looks just like Sherlock,” she said, before the nervous giggling started, and she looked up at the elder Holmes brother in wonder. 

"Goldfish," he said making her even more confused. 

When Sherlock does kiss her cheek it’s certainly different to the one she was given that one Christmas, it stays warm on her skin, and his eyes - they are brimming with feelings.

He is being so very open, so very honest. He meant every single word, and she feels it. She shuts her eyes, wondering if she wasn’t ‘engaged’, would he kiss her on the lips?

"Maybe it’s just my type," she said, and she regrets it, she wants to eat chips, but she can’t.

They are closer than they’ve ever been, but they feel so far apart. 

* * *

 

This ‘Tom’ shows up at her flat, startling her and Toby, while she tries to understand, when he’s soon occupying her space, “Got to be believable,” he said, though she doesn’t entirely understand his wardrobe. 

She suspects that Mycroft Holmes is somewhere laughing. 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s expression is shocked the second Tom has come along with her, and she almost breaks out in a laugh, “Is it serious?” asked Lestrade. His disbelieving look, and everyone else’s makes her feel silly, but there’s nothing else to it. 

She does long for Sherlock to stay, instead of having Tom hovering besides her, but she has to cope with his presence. He’s trained in his field apparently, an agent, and at present - her bodyguard, though he tries to give himself away as ‘stupid’, which she rather he not. 

* * *

 

She worries about him possibly being the best man, but she knows she can’t ring him up. He’s barely visited Bart’s, even when he does it’s always when others are there, and before he’d always be there when she was alone. He didn’t like others to be present, and she understands that perhaps…she truly has mattered more than he can say. 

She’s glad when he does show up, though the ‘stag’ is perhaps the worst of the excuses he has conjured up, and the easiest of tasks for her to maintain, but she does let the ‘sex’ thing slip.

She wanted to see his face, his slightly disconcerted expression, and she wonders if he would be scared if it was with her. A part of her convinces herself it doesn’t mean anything, nothing at all, as he needs a confidante again.

That’s it, it’s nothing more. 

* * *

 

She ends up staring daggers at him and the bridesmaid who is flirting with him, so she acts it up with ‘Tom’, and feels his steel gaze boring down upon her from a distance.

He has been avoiding her, before and after the wedding - not a word shared between them, as she wanders about with  _meat-dagger_  - a great impression of an idiot.

There was really no excuse as to why she stabbed him with a fork, but she really got annoyed by his all-too convincing act. 

* * *

 

She sees him leave, and suddenly it feels like she has a dagger herself, twisting in her insides, but she knows she can’t run after him.

She has got to stay, she has to keep up the charade, just a little bit more.

Just for now, and then maybe later…

She can only hope. 

 

 


	15. Dinner at Angelo's

“Oh John – lovely to see you – where’s Sherlock?” said Angelo who was still donning a ponytail eyeing his wife Mary, as they’d just taken off their coats stepping inside the restaurant.

John frowned as he settled down by a table, “This is my wife Mary, actually.”

“Oh – oh – right - hello,” said the man rather flustered, “Well –  _well_ – it’s on the house!”

They were soon seated, menus and glasses of water handed out, while John tried to ignore answering any of Angelo’s questions concerning ‘Sherlock’.

Mary however was grinning at him wickedly, hidden behind her menu, but the second Angelo wandered off John’s bubble burst - “Don’t,” he said with a stern voice, as she broke out in laughter making him soften instantly.   

“Does everyone think you’re gay? Since pretty much all the shops near Baker Street are filled with people asking about your  _boyfriend_ ,” she said in a low voice before adding,  “Though sometimes it does feel like I am married to two men, minus the-,”

He grimaced, “God –  _no_  – don’t - oh shut up, or I’ll-,” 

“You already have,” she said, “So – bringing me to the restaurant you and Sherlock had your first date in? Fun.”

He snorted, closing the menu before him shut as he said, “You’re really not helping, anyway like I said – you know – there was the woman…but I just don’t think he’s built that way.”

“What –  _way_?” said Mary with raised brows.

“You know, he’s kind of –  _well_  – he’s not – he can barely talk to people in general without it having to be about murders and stuff, so I can’t actually imagine him having a girlfriend,” he said taking a sip of his wine.

“Ok, let’s just imagine he had a girlfriend – what kind of woman would that be?”

“I really hope you’re not suggesting-,”

“Janine? Oh no, she didn’t fancy him at all, thought he was nice, except he seemed to be-,”

Angelo reappeared at their table, and John noted that they hadn’t received a candle, “Have you two decided then?”

“Err – yes-,” said John smiling, giving their order, and upon receiving it Angelo muttered something indistinctively, “Sorry – what was that?” 

“Oh well, err -,” said the man clearing his voice, “Sherlock brought a woman years ago…obviously to prove a point as well…and believe me-,”

“What?” said John gaping.

* * *

 

Somehow Mary hadn’t at all been surprised when Angelo announced that a sweet woman named  _Molly_  had accompanied Sherlock to disastrous effect. The evening ended with her sitting alone, eating a large size of complimentary chips, when Sherlock had to handle a case (which sounded more like an excuse due to nerves according to Mary). 

John couldn’t understand how it wasn’t amazing that his best friend who at large was ‘married to his work’ had gone on an actual date with an actual woman, except the bit with him having left of course. He wasn’t a stranger to suddenly looking at the end of the table in the middle of a meal to find the man had vanished, but it still counted as a ‘date’. Considering everything somehow it wasn’t entirely mad that Sherlock was interested in Molly. After all they had a lot in common, and he used to spend a lot of time at St Bart’s before…except after Molly’s engagement. 

His smugness was short-lived when Mary pointed out that Janine had more or less spotted Sherlock staring daggers at Molly’s fiancé Tom, while keeping an eye on  _the woman in yellow_  most of the evening, “She wondered a bit about that really. He didn’t once go and talk to her, kept his distance – and she didn’t realise until she knew Molly was engaged.”

“He’s been going on about engaged women being off-limits lately.”

“Do you think…” it lingered in the air, the idea that his best mate had finally become very human. He had always been human, but it was the first time Sherlock seemed to acknowledge that he was.

“If he is…I don’t think me talking to him would help,” said John clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You’re actually nervous, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“That if he gets a girlfriend he might only bring _her_  to cases, instead of you.”

“Well – he already did that with Molly, and he actually –,”

“You’ve gotten married and you still haven’t forgotten him! Look – _we_  – even went to Angelo’s tonight, and you’ve said that you’ve been worried he’d get lonely…A girlfriend would be a good thing. He has to grow up at some point.”

“Except Molly’s engaged, isn’t she? And she even seems happy…no wonder he’s been keeping his distance lately.”

Mary’s smile dropped, remerging again as she said, “I don’t suppose Tom’s an evil mastermind either, is he?”

“No, Sherlock checked,” said John, before he laughed, “God, he’s been so bloody obvious. He knows Tom’s name, but he never ever remember Greg’s – even asking Molly for help about the stag…He actually properly fancies her-,” 

“Not that it helps him much in this case with her being engaged, and all-,”

“No, I suppose not… _so_ …I better not say anything?”

“Let’s just wait and see what happens…”

* * *

 

“Sherlock! John! How lovely to see you here – it’s been ages-,” said Angelo in his booming voice, shaking Sherlock by the hand enthusiastically. 

“Yes, it has,” said Sherlock smirking, “Angelo, you remember Molly?”  


	16. Tea time

She knew it. 

She had waited for it, more than she should have, but she knew that one day it would come up. However she never expected the topic to crop up while John was out in the pub, and it was past midnight. No, she was barely prepared and able to get out of bed half-shrieking murder, until she heard Sherlock’s voice in the kitchen, “I’m making you a cup of camomile!” he shouted.

“That’s usually for people who want to sleep, not people who’ve already been sleeping,” she muttered, climbing out of the bed, slowly padding over to the kitchen, reluctant to put on more clothing. It wasn’t as if her nightgown wasn’t already making her look like Pavarotti, and that he at all cared for her appearance.

The consulting detective,  _her_  six-year-old was slamming kitchen cupboards shut, and stirring madly spoons in cups, before he finally jammed an all-too hot cup in her hand, promptly removing it when she yelped, before setting it upon the table with a bang, the contents sloshing at impact, “OK,” she said slowly at his rather manic attitude, “Is this cigarettes, then?”

He was frowning, soon discarding his great coat, as he settled down by the kitchen table, putting down a regular cuppa with PG-tips in front of himself (oh how she longed for regular caffeinated tea).

Mary was still standing looking at him expectantly, and he soon rolled his eyes, before he stood up guiding her into the other available chair. 

She thanked him with a pleased smile, “So…what’s wrong?” she said sipping on the tea, knowing that whatever was bothering him would need more soothing than just a cuppa.

He opened his mouth, words about to be uttered, but he shut his mouth again. He rather resembled a flustered teenager, and she generally felt he was one, especially regarding this. She had half-expected to see him appearing through the doors months ago, and not this late in the game. She wondered what had set him off…finally, but she knew there was no point asking about that really. 

“Apparently this is going to take some time,” she said with a snort, wondering if they’d have the pleasure of John appearing pissed, and questioning of the whole situation.

The pair of them had already experienced Sherlock turning up rather hysterical in the middle of the night. Either for the health of her baby - making her swear off caffeine – or other strange things. Lately, he hadn’t been showing up, and she was quite certain she knew as to why that was – “Does this have anything to do with Molly not being engaged to Tom anymore?” she said without looking at him, keeping her eyes distant, until she dared chance a look at his face.

He looked like a deer in headlights, completely obtuse, until his expression changed into an aggravated child’s, “No,” he spat, a crinkle appearing between his brows.

She drank more of her tea, giving him the time to say whatever he wanted to say, “I thought she was happy,” he said.

Mary hid away her smile behind her cup, “Well, obviously she wasn’t happy…he probably wasn’t her type. Better now, than sorry really.”

“Ah,” he said with a distant expression, taking a large swallow of his tea, a swallow which she assumed burned the inside of his mouth, but he didn’t seem at all bothered, “What is…her type?”

“Obviously not you, since you’re asking such a stupid question. Come on,” said Mary with a groan, “We both know why you’re here.”

“I was checking up on you.”

“Then you’d text, or let me stay in bed,” she said pointedly, “Remember, I know when you’re fibbing.”

He frowned at her, while she gave him a huge grin in return; “Sherlock, I saw you, you might pretend like your _Mr Stealth_ , but you’re terrible really – you were staring every chance you got.”

There was a moment of silence, with him looking at her, as if she was the one lying. She wasn’t, after all she did also have a pair of eyes, and they did pick up things.

“I was not!”

“Fibbing.”

Another round of silence, with him narrowing his eyes at her, until she saw the slight smile spread over his features, his face softening, until he said in a low voice, “John is a lucky man.”

“I know - now go get her,” she said, and he quickly swept out of his chair, throwing on his coat, before he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.

He disappeared out of the kitchen at that, and she dared to reach for his teacup, “No!” she heard in the distance. She slumped in her seat frowning, though agreeing with him.

It was luckily only a couple of months left after all. Hopefully he’d manage to ask Molly for a cup of coffee before the baby came, but she wasn’t holding her breath.


	17. Violence

She wasn’t violent. 

The closest to a violent episode she’d ever had was when she’d manage to accidentally rip off her best friend Julia’s silver necklace when she was about nine, and they were play-fighting at best (though it turned rather serious at that, damaged jewellery and all).

She had never stabbed someone with a plastic fork, nonetheless a fork, as there didn’t regularly turn up reasons to do so after all.

She wasn’t violent in nature, and the only things she cut in daily life or maimed or injured in any way were ‘food’ or ‘bodies’. The latter being due to her job – a brain here or an arm there was nothing to her after all. And it had comforted her for quite some time that Tom had never really had a problem with that, “So, you’re like CSI-then?” he’d said wide-eyed and enthusiastic, when she’d first mentioned her job, shyly wondering if she’d manage to scare him off, but then he proceeded to ask her a ludicrous amount of questions regarding her ‘job’.

The fact that she texted Mycroft Holmes not long after, getting a quick reply in return,  _‘Background check is clean, I do keep an eye on my brother’s…friends.”_  was perhaps a bit paranoid, but she didn’t want to have another incident of her boyfriend turning into some villain (he seemed a bit  _too_  keen). 

It wasn’t like she believed that everyone who fancied her were sociopaths, as one of those sociopaths didn’t in fact… _fancy_  her that was.

After all the  _man_  had after playing a beautiful composition of his own, proceeded to throw his corsage at the maid of honour. She had literally felt her entire face fall at that, though she managed to salvage the pieces quite quickly, or at least she had tried.

The real problem, and she knew it was, was how fast she found Tom after that. She had tried her best to distance herself from him after the  _meat dagger_ , and his other idiotic comments, but right there she needed him.

This was exactly the problem.

Molly knew that the problems had started quite early. Actually they’d been going on for some months, and were on a man’s sudden uprising from the ‘dead’. She had received question upon question about her involvement, “How did he do it?” he’d asked her, and she hadn’t felt terribly interested to enlighten him. 

In fact she didn’t wish to tell him anything, feeling as he wouldn’t understand half of it, but of course she gave Tom credit.

He was nice really, properly nice, and she should be with a nice man after all. He had asked her to marry him, her engagement ring a constant reminder, and one that she’d been fiddling with all day, before and after the wedding. 

She had excused her sudden intake of three glasses of wine on the fact that she’d been delighted with the wedding, instead of the fact that Sherlock was standing with the bridesmaid.

Tom had been worried, until she distracted him by almost attempting to eat his face, feeling the touch of his lips against hers, but he seemed almost embarrassed by it. And finally eating actual food luckily grounded her, making her docile, but – ‘a fork’.

She wasn’t violent, the least violent of people she knew, and yet she had stabbed Tom in the hand with the fork without a second thought. Instead of apologising like any other person would have she avoided him, like it was his fault for pointing at something that anyone else would have thought hadn’t they actually known the man himself, but then again  _did_  she in fact properly know him? Yes, she helped him with stag night, and with his death, and with ‘everything’, but did that mean…

Yes.

Yes, it did.

She had kept dancing when she saw him slink out, disappearing into the night like a spectre, as if he’d never been at the party.

No one else seemed to notice that he’d left, but she didn’t feel like chasing him. In fact she couldn’t chase him, because there was a heavy weight pressing on her hand.

He didn’t love her, obviously he didn’t, and he was never ever going to marry. He might have returned and changed, but it didn’t mean…”Are you alright?” asked Tom amidst the dance floor, while she struggled for breath.

“I need some air,” she shouted, the tears building up in her eyes, as she bounded for the outside taking in the rather cold evening.

She stood taking large breaths, ingesting the air desperately, as she knew the problem wasn’t Tom…”You okay?” said a voice, and she was surprised to find Mary  _Watson_  outside in the cold with her, “It’s a bit nippy tonight, saw you pop out, thought I might say hello, so…you okay?”

“Yeah,” said Molly picking up the grin she’d been wearing earlier, “Lovely.” 

“You’re terrible at fibbing…so…is it Tom?”

Molly shook her head, her lower lip trembling.

“Possibly that impossible best man?” continued Mary, “Who my best friend actually isn’t at all interested in by the way, and who in return didn’t exactly feel like he’d return those kind of feelings-,”

“To anyone,” finished Molly off with a sigh, her hands on her hips.

“That’s a bit dramatic,” said Mary with a crinkle of her nose, causing Molly to look at her in surprise.

“What?”

“Well…ok…so domestic life might not be entirely normal with him, but there’s always hope.”

Molly found herself laughing at that, “There’s been… _hope_  for years,” she said stifling a sniffle, “I can’t wait forever.”

“If you know he’s the right man, then you do, because if he isn’t – then you won’t. It’s as easy as that, and you’re supposed to be moving on, aren’t you? Obviously you’ve properly moved on, standing here crying because he’s left the party.”

Molly didn’t know what to say, “You’re not the only one who notices things – since it’s a bit difficult not seeing you staring at him -,” said Mary.

She felt redness crawl into her cheeks, heating them up with shame, “It’s just been so difficult since he came back, and I sort of hoped I’d gotten over him.”

 “A man can be buried, but doesn’t mean your feelings will remain buried as well,” said Mary with a slight frown clasping Molly’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, “Don’t rush into something because you think it’s the way to go round with things, since you should never ever settle – I didn’t.” 

* * *

 

Mary smugly settled into her husband’s lap, letting him hold her to him tightly, as he whispered pleasant nothings in her ear (slightly slurred, of course). In the distance she caught sight of Molly Hooper having a rather serious conversation with Tom, and knew quite instinctively that the woman was having a ‘breaking-up conversation’.

“Sherlock’s left, then?” said John who finally caught on his friends disappearance, “Not like I’m surprised. He’s rubbish at these things…proved that on his own earlier.” 

Mary didn’t give the comment that kept gnawing on the inside of her mouth, as she knew John knowing would just scare the man off.

If she hadn’t been looking for it she would never have caught Sherlock  _‘looking, when Molly wasn’t’._


	18. Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt/random headcanon/whatever: Molly telling Sherlock that she’s finally gotten over him because they can only be friends anyway, and Sherlock being angry at himself for missing his chance to tell her about his feelings (sounds a bit angsty at first, but I’m sure you could also make something funny out of it)

He didn’t know when it started. He could not pin-point the precise moment their relationship had altered, but it had. Perhaps it had changed when she said out of the blue, “We’re friend’s aren’t we? At least I think we are, and that’s good isn’t it? Us being friends, right? That’s probably just what we’ll be, you know.”

He hadn’t known what to say to that, feeling rather bewildered, but she kept on talking, “Since…I think I’m finally over you, and you’re probably relieved,” she’d laughed at that.

There were no nerves visible after that statement, just her trademark giggle, and her regular Molly-behaviour, “No more mooning over you dashing about with your popped-up collar. Now you’re just - Sherlock.”

"Just Sherlock?" he said with knitted brows. 

She had nodded brightly in return, “You know like John sees you? - Just Sherlock  - his  _mate_.”

He had stared at that, “I am…your  _mate_?”

"Yes," she said looking momentarily confused, before she waved a gloved hand, "Well, friend probably sounds better, yeah, you’re right." She’d walked off at that, "I’ll leave you to it, I know you hate it when I stand about chatting." 

The second she’d left he said, “No, I don’t…” and that was when the problems started, or maybe escalated. 

He had been aware of her feelings for years, especially during her engagement to another man. Somehow he’d taken pity on meat-dagger, understanding that it was a lost cause, which he knew Molly would have to ‘fix’ herself.

He was not responsible for that particular part, and neither did he feel at all guilty for the breaking of the engagement. This was not his fault, he had kept his tongue, and it all resolved itself accordingly. 

He had expected her to visibly show her affection in her conduct during his many sessions at Bart’s after, or particularly during Moriarty’s uprising, but she had only given a brief shrug when he mentioned ‘Jim’.

"We all make mistakes," she had said eyeing him, and he’d felt rather unnerved by that look and sentence. 

Then when James Moriarty finally fell for his own tangled web - she had come up with this. He was her ‘mate’, or ‘friend’. Neither of those were good options in his head. Just words, meaningless words. And he found himself severely annoyed by it.

She was  _over_  him apparently, but there was no other man.

No fiancé, no boyfriend, no flirt to be singled out as the cause for her sudden disinterest. He could only blame himself, a concept he certainly did not delight in, but there was no valid reason for him to care. 

He saw her as a…mate. No. Friend? Never. 

The answer came to him that evening, his mind racing, his pulse quickening, as he realised with a great deal annoyance that he couldn’t see them ever being anything remotely ‘platonic’. There would always be a -  _even how unarticulated it sounded_  - thing. A thing that he could not clearly define, nor did he entirely wish to, but he found himself addressing it every time he ventured into Bart’s.

It was infuriating, even more so when she eased up even more around him, taking to unexpectedly touching him, regarding him with the same affection she would her cat. He was torn between two emotions - abhorrence and delight. He did wish for her hands to ruffle his hair, simultaneously as he rather her never ruffle his hair, especially if she never intended to…

Three small words.

One meaning. 

_Act on it._

The same words he had once told her in his head, except with  _'don't'_  as the front runner upon their knowing each other. Now none of her playful actions were riddled with subtext. Coffee was just coffee. Lunch was just lunch. Dinner was just dinner. This was what friends do she told him, like him and John she repeated, but never in this way. 

"There’s a candle," he said pointedly looking at the table. 

She blinked at him in the middle of eating, “Ok?”

"Don’t you find that strange?"

"You don’t like eating with a candle? Should I blow it out?"

"You don’t find it -," he stopped, "Never mind." 

They would have nights. He’d show up at her flat, and stay while she watched some dreadful film of her choosing. He would endure the whole mind-numbingly dull films, having her close to his side, clutching at him if there was ever anything to fear.

He found himself soon selecting films, choosing out the ones he knew were terrifying, “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully, as she stared between her fingertips. 

The worse it got, the closer she’d be. 

He didn’t mind. Neither did he mind when one night she rang him up frightened by the weather, and he showed up. Between the lightning and the thunder he held her hand, while they lay on her bed, “Do friends do this?”

Several minutes passed, “Yes,” she finally said with a breathy voice, her hand reluctantly edging away from his, but he returned it to its original spot. She drew in a breath at that.

He pulled up her chin, gazed into her brown wide eyes, and laid a gentle kiss on her lips. A kiss that lingered, that extended, and he felt her hesitance, her doubt, as he pulled back, “We will never be friends,” he said. 

Then her smile appeared, and he felt like laughing. Somehow he had been tricked, not intentionally however. It happened, like it would have happened anyway - he was with her before he even knew it. 


	19. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt request: Molly and Janine "fight" over Sherlock while he is present.

He stood lurking behind the trees, listening to the women’s conversation with his back turned, “I think I’ve got him really pegged – I properly understand him.” He had expected there to be arguments really, some sort of irritation between the pair, but Molly seemed only to have sympathy with Janine – and Janine had taken a liking to his… _friend._

There they were at John and Mary’s christening of their daughter Amelia Watson, his goddaughter, and he was keeping an eye out on his ‘date’, or at least he’d managed to get Janine to go with him out of cheer cheek when Mary suggested he bring a plus one (though hinting quite obviously to the single-for-many-months-pathologist).

“You do?” said Molly taking a much longer than needed sip of her drink, while Janine nodded in return.

 

The alcohol was certainly making them less gracious.

“Obviously,” said Janine grinning, “There’s a reason he asked me to come with him tonight-,”

Sherlock felt he was being tested, this utterance in itself marked that he would not be bringing Janine on any future escapade, since obviously - “Because he doesn’t fancy me, so he can cock it up as much as he likes really.”

He hadn’t expected that –  _oh_  – “Because obviously he fancies  _you_ ,” said Janine eyeing Molly who immediately spluttered, almost spilling the contents of her drink in the process.

He almost lost his footing behind the tree, fumbling rather a bit too much for his own liking. Sherlock straightened himself up, hands folded behind his back, as he tried to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping to onlookers.

“No – no – no – no –  _no_  – he doesn’t,” said Molly quite quickly. If she was attempting to give the idea that she wasn’t at all nervous by this statement, she was failing terribly, as he heard it in her many ‘no’s’, “I’m just a friend.”

“He’s been staring at you the entire day.” 

He hadn’t, his back was now turned.

“No, he hasn’t – he doesn’t-,”

“To be honest I thought he was already staring at you during Mary and John’s wedding-,”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. He had been. It was the glaring yellow dress.

“Janine, honestly – he doesn’t look at me like that.”

Like  _that_   - like what?

“Yes, he does.”

“No, he doesn’t…OK – look where is he now then? I don’t see him staring, do you?”

“Well, he’s not now – he’s hiding behind that tree trying to pretend he’s not listening in –  _hello Sherlock_!”

 


	20. Helping hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Molly catches Sherlock watching porn ;)

_Cases, chips and corpses._ Two of those she never expected to be something she’d be doing on quite a regular basis with Sherlock, except the latter. She had been his ‘dealer’ regarding body-parts and other things he used for scientific reasons, but the other two were stranger in some ways. When her engagement with Tom ended, she had supposed she’d be shifting to the mousy persona she’d managed to adapt around him again, but somehow it wasn’t possible to return to that particular place.

And with John unable to always be present, she was his secondary choice, and she was all right with that. They were friends, despite her slapping him with the best intentions of putting some sense into him (even though guilt rolled through her when her hand smarted like hell). Her dropping in unannounced into Baker Street, especially if John texted her –  _Can you sort him out?_  – became ordinary.

She had become the babysitter more or less, tending to him when he was most difficult, distracting him when he could possibly slip up, but he had promised her he wouldn’t.

The fact was she enjoyed their outings and their little ‘dinners’. Sometimes it even got very domestic, with her watching the telly and pushing him to watch some television shows he ruined with on-going commentaries.

It was an odd little life, with him showing up in her flat occupying her bedroom, “I need room to think,” he’d say lying from her bed, while she shuffled about with her groceries a bit miffed he didn’t warn her. 

She would grudgingly settle into the bed with him, arguing the fact that “The guest bedroom’s mattress is too hard.” A feeling he shared with her.

Nothing ever happened really. It was all very ordinary, though she had that _feeling_. It was like a prickling at the back of her neck, and she couldn’t entirely place it.

“Almost sounds like an relationship,” Mary pointed out to her one afternoon, at which she scoffed, as there was entirely nothing romantic or sexual about any of it. 

“Then John dated him for years.”

“Who says they aren’t dating still?” said Mary with a cheeky smile, causing Molly to giggle quite thoroughly.

She did occasionally walk in on him wearing only a sheet, sometimes being entirely without the sheet, as he didn’t at all find nudity troubling. Molly certainly didn’t have problems with  _his_ nudity, except the fact that she didn’t know where to look.

* * *

 

Many months had passed without ‘very’ awkward moments. Of course the one time they were stuck in a closet together hiding away, with her pressed firmly against his chest, feeling him breathe underneath her fingertips with his surprisingly minty breath hitting her face was – unsettling. Or when people would ask if they were a ‘couple’, a question he’d ignore entirely, while she’d mumble an inappropriate amount until she said, “No, of course not!” in an all to bright voice – was uncomfortable.

She wanted to ignore it, because whatever was going on was fine. The fact that she still found him unbelievably hot was a fact she choose to ignore, and that she would become disgustingly irritated if anyone flirted with him. 

Luckily he wasn’t exactly the most charming at that front, turning even the most beautiful of women down without so much as a blink of an eye. There was no proof that he had any interest in anyone except if there was a ‘case’, which somehow relieved her. He was most romantic about those ventures, his eyes glittering over puzzling circumstances, and not over the length of a woman’s skirt.

Sherlock had of course taken to compliment her on occasion if she was forced to wear anything unorthodox for a situation, which was nice, but he was certainly doing it as it was almost expected of him. She was convinced that John prompted the sudden compliments he’d spring on her out of the blue. But she was entirely certain that Sherlock had no interest in a relationship, be it with a woman or a man, and certainly not – sex.

His reaction when anything sexual came up was baffled silence, a slight creasing of his eyebrows, before he ignored the situation completely. And somehow it became her greatest amusement to unsettle him. It wouldn’t be friendly if she didn’t on occasion put him out of his comfort-zone, even a little with some odd comment. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone as far as saying the word ‘tits’ when gesturing to a corpse, as it was highly unprofessional, but his expression was one Greg later wished he had filmed.

Sherlock always managed to make her somewhat unsettled, besides impressed - in the way he’d know everything by one look, but this particular thing was outside his area of expertise. Molly chose to ignore the ‘dead woman’, but that was due to having the story told to her by John. It helped really, putting things in perspective, and making her loosening up a bit. If someone intrigued him it was because they confused him, though she rather hoped he had some sincere feelings regarding Irene Adler. She knew he was no sociopath as he constantly claimed, for it was only the cards he kept playing, so he wouldn’t lose the game, but in her opinion there was nothing wrong with having a heart. After all, she had always believed he had one.

A libido she was heartily convinced he didn’t have, though one Saturday afternoon she was thoroughly proved wrong.

She had received fifteen texts from John that day.  _Fifteen_  was desperate even for him, all of them with cap-lock and exclamation-marks reminding her that it was his anniversary and he’d rather not have Sherlock ‘cocking’ it up. He did sometimes thrive in ruining social occasions, despite how hard he tried not to.  

She’d gotten to 221B as quickly as she could after work, unlocking the door, noting that Mrs Hudson was out most likely with her little knitting-collective (gossip-group more or less), and that it sounded rather silent. Usually she’d be greeted by erratic playing of the violin, or some sort of loud banging or even gunshots. She walked up the steps warily, eyeing her surroundings with suspicion, but nothing out of the ordinary greeted her in the sitting room.

This was what was in fact unordinary.

The silence was so overwhelming she was sure Sherlock had gotten out, and she half-wondered if he was lost somewhere, before she reasoned that he wasn’t her cat Toby. He was a grown man, perfectly able to take care of himself, and yet she found herself rolling her eyes.

Everything seemed fine, though tidied a bit away, like nothing had been touched since Mrs Hudson arranged a bit in the morning. The landlady would always do a bit of dusting and sorting out before Sherlock woke up, but given the state Molly knew he hadn’t even left his bedroom. She blinked at that, worry gnawing through her, as the last time she’d found the flat like this - he was recovering from his gunshot, claiming he didn’t need any assistance.

But then she heard some muffled ‘noise’ coming from the bedroom, a pair of voices, or whatever it was.

Without further ado she shook her head, strode through the kitchen, past the bathroom, and slammed open his bedroom door –

“ _Oh – oh – fuck me_ -,”

_“You’re so thick, oh, please – harder -,”_  

His blue-green eyes turned to her, widening ever so slightly, as he had the laptop laid in front of him on the bed. She gaped at the sight, watching him slap the laptop screen down, but somehow it didn’t subdue to vocal voice of the woman,  _“Oh God – God – mhm -,”_  luckily the sound finally followed, but it did not stop her from gaping. Her hand was frozen on the doorknob, unsure if she was at all able to move from the spot, as she stared at the man still in his morning robe that barely left anything to the imagination with its prominent bulge.

“Oh my God-,” she said moving backwards, shutting the door with her, as she found her feet, finally half-sprinting back into the living room – “ _Oh my God_ -,” she said aware that she was sounding like the woman who was being pounded over – what was it again – no she wasn’t going to think about it –

“Molly,” his voice broke out the second she had almost escaped out of the door “Stop.”

She made a grimace, her nose crinkling up, as she took hesitant steps backwards, whirling around on the spot, “Oh hello!” she said in an all-too bright voice.

This was one of those few situations she never expected to happen between the pair of them. It was like opening Pandora’s box, and finding he had – fully functional male bits.  _Sherlock Holmes had erections!_  She almost giggled, her cheeks hurting from the close impact, as she looked at him with the most innocent of expressions she could conjure up. He looked spectacularly put out, like a schoolboy out of his element, and she was his reprimanding schoolteacher about to give him a thorough lesson. _Oh, brilliant her mind was thinking porn apparently. Lovely._

“That wasn’t what it looked like-,” he said, the words rushing out of his mouth with her raising her brows in return.

Silence, the ones crickets could perfectly fill up with their chirps fell over them, and her eyes went in the downward trajectory despite the best of intentions. She hastily pulled them up, pursing her lips, and trying to mask her expressions of growing amusement, “That  _wasn’t_  porn then?”

“No.”

She blinked, “It looked a bit porn-like.”

“Yes,” he added in what seemed to be after-thought.

“Ok – explain,” she said crossing her arms a bit, trying to at least seem she was on top of the situation.

His mouth opened, then closed, and then re-opened, “It’s for a case.”

“A case?”

“It just came up,” he said, and she saw he rethought his words the second after he’d uttered them, “ _Ah_.”

And immediately both of them started to talk simultaneously -

“Umm, well, it’s alright – even I-,”

“Molly of course for a –  _what?”_

She closed her eyes shut of a second realising her mistake, but there was no proper recovery, “What case?” she said clearing her throat.

He eyed her rather particularly at that, creases appearing between his brows, the usual bewildered look, before he said, “I was contacted of one of the actresses in this particular  _film_  who’s regular male co-star of five years was murdered right after. Given the fact that the case took place years ago, and the man was cremated - there was no way to extradite the body, but she was recently given a ‘clue’ (the film in question) I suspect from the murderer. They always like giving themselves away, they do get terribly bored when they get no recognition – I share the sentiment. So…I’ve been watching to find the supposed killer, and frankly it’s rather dull – not exactly much plot in these types of  _films_ , -“

She finally let out the laughter, either Sherlock was telling her a brilliant lie, or he was in fact telling the truth. It was most likely the latter, though she wasn’t going to point out that he clearly had a  _reaction_  to said film with no plot.

“Ok,” she said nodding a bit, before they shifted into a slight awkward silence yet again. And then words that she never expected came out of her mouth, “Do you need any help watching?”

He stared at her unblinkingly for a couple of seconds, before he said, “Fine,” striding off ahead of her towards his bedroom.

“We’re doing it in there then?” she said following after him, as he settled down on the bed again.

“I’d rather not have Mrs Hudson catch us in the act Molly – would make some awkward conversation – despite the fact that she has the decency to knock,” he said looking up at her pointedly, his expression all business, as he stretched out on the bed re-opening the laptop, but settling it on top of his thighs.

“She’s out though.”

“Yet she has the uncanny ability to show up at the most awkward of moments – lay down,” he said jerking his head to the spot besides him. She removed her jacket, and her scarf, slipping off her shoes in the process, as she settled down besides him. She had never slept on his bed, not that they were actually going to sleep either, “If you are going to laugh – do it now,” he said with a slight bored voice. 

She eyed him crossing her arms, trying to put on the same serious expression he was carrying, “Just press play, I’ll be alright,” she said, though she really wasn’t.

She hardly believed she was lying down on his bed, resting on his pillow, and watching  _porn._  Sherlock went backwards on the film to her surprise, starting from the beginning of the scene, and Molly was shocked to find the woman who she’d seen earlier now wear a white coat. Her brown eyes flew to Sherlock silently, before she asked, “What’s it called?”

She saw him swallowing, “Hard in the morgue.”

“That’s – long,” she said rather thoughtfully, expecting something variation of “Doctor Doo-little.” 

“The actress claims it’s a bit more artistic. I disagree.”

Molly didn’t feel like asking about his expertise on the matter, despite temptation. Instead she tried to pay attention to the scene – the woman was in a white room, obviously supposed to be a ‘morgue’, or some sort of medical room. The doors opened, and the woman’s false expression of surprise was shown. Reaction-images that weren’t supposed to be sexual were always far more dramatic in a way, “It’s you,” said the woman, a hand soon clutching at her large chest.

“Yes, it’s me,” said a man who was the opposite of an attractive man.

The woman with her long false nails, and perfectly done makeup and hair certainly did not look like she’d worked over-time or any shift at all. While the man looked like any odd bloke on the street, like usual, and somehow – the woman was on her knees, her mouth wrapped around his cock. Seeing his large appendage Molly understood why he got the job, though she always found  _too big_  rather intimidating, “That’s…quick,” she said, because she couldn’t endure the silence (if one ignored the loud moaning from the screen). 

Sherlock wasn’t moving or shifting an inch, just paying close attention with narrowed eyes. She felt sudden relief when he skipped ahead, “No,” he uttered seeming unaffected, scenes of the woman spitting and gagging breezing past them.

He finally stopped at another scene – with a doctor and his patient, “Doctor, my chest hurts,” said the woman opening up her hospital gown and exposing her huge breasts.

“Let me see,” said the doctor with a disgusting leer, as he put his statoscope on her breast, teasing her nipples with the object.  

“Oh, it’s cold doctor!”

“Not exactly medically accurate,” quipped Sherlock skipping further ahead in the film.

“I don’t think accuracy is what they’re going for,” she said snorting, glad he was saying something.

“No, definitively not.”

She bit her lip, trying to quell her laughter, as they stopped at another scene – “ _Ah_ ,” said Sherlock. His lips were pressed together, as they observed a woman who stood hovering over a ‘corpse’. The man on the metal bench was certainly alive, despite being painted pale with markings around his throat, but his chest was rising and falling.

“I’m sorry,” said the woman in her white coat, apologising to the corpse, as she wielded a scalpel intending to cut open the man. Wearing no gloves, or anything that gave the scene not even the semblance of a professional tone.  

But still…this scene stood out, and felt rather familiar.

Molly shifted in the bed, feeling it creak soundly underneath her, as she soon caught Sherlock glancing in her direction. His eyes flitted back to the screen, while she kept hers on as well. The thing was, she regularly did _this_   - “It’s not easy being dead,” said the woman, who was a better actress than the others surprisingly enough, “I wouldn’t know though.”

“Is that her?” she whispered.

She didn’t know why she whispered, but she found herself unable to do anything else.

“Yes – how did you know?” 

She shrugged in reply, her throat oddly drying up, as the ‘dead’ man gripped the woman by her wrist, “I’m not dead,” he rasped out.

There was actual foreplay to her astonishment, though it quickly turned into the woman with her back on the slab, and the man thrusting himself forcefully into her with his  _deceased_  penis.

The laptop was suddenly slammed shut at that, “I’ve seen enough,” said Sherlock, and she let out a breath in relief, “Obviously it was suicide, accidental however.”

“It was?” she said shocked.

“He was the man on the slab – did you notice the markings around his throat?”

“Oh,” she said irritated that it was so obvious. 

“He was found strangled, but I highly suspect he indulged in asphyxiation considering those markings – I briefly watched clips from his previous work. Obviously he got careless and his old actress-friend – has lost her touch without him. Not everyone functions without their better half so to speak, so she’s most likely trying to generate interest around herself by claiming murder…I should have known,” he said almost leaping off the bed rather quickly, and settling the laptop aside on his desk.

He was keeping his back towards her, hands on his hips, but he didn’t turn around.

“I should go,” she said rather carefully, sitting upright on the bed, until she got to her feet.

He finally faced her, eyes fixed on her face, as she could only return the look wordlessly.  She almost drew her gaze away, though she was glad she didn’t, for that was when he broke the distance between them. His lips found hers, slow and gentle, until his hands were clutching at her face and she was moaning against his mouth. 

She could feel the kiss in the tip of her toes– she felt dizzy, but she didn’t care. She dug her hands into his hair, seeking out those soft curls, as she opened up her mouth to his, tasting the mint in his mouth. Her hands found the neckline of his shirt, dragging at it, as she wriggled herself against him properly. She could feel him hard underneath the thin layers of his clothing, groaning against her lips at the friction she made, and she smiled , while she slowly walked backwards towards the bed pulling him with her.

She fell with him on top, her legs quickly wrapping themselves around his waist, suddenly aware that there was too much clothing present. He seemed to agree with her, quickly tugging at her top, freeing her breasts, while she drew off his clothes quickly.

She had the disadvantage of layers; still there was something with having him naked on top of her, his cock jutting against her. He seemed to disagree, almost ripping off her clothing desperately, teasing her nipples with his mouth, before a pair of fingers teased her already wet entrance, “Please-,” she moaned against his mouth, as he thrust inside her with his index finger.

He sunk into her making her gasp, as he filled up her moist cunt. She dug her nails into his back, while he pushed inside her repeatedly, slamming her hard against the mattress.

 “Oh God-,” she said, biting at her lips, almost drawing blood, before his mouth searched hers out again – stilling her cries. The feeling of pure ecstasy spread throughout her, before he finally gave his final thrust inside of her, her words turning jumbled up, as he rested on top of her.

After a few minutes of shared breathing, he lifted his head, and she said with a grin, “Do you have any more  _films_?”

 


	21. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (established relationship) Sherlock finds a man flirting and getting too touchy with Molly (much to her distaste). He must do something about it.

He could get distracted, easily forgetful the closer she got, for he only wished to sink himself into her, pushing into her slick warmth, until he lost himself repeatedly.  _Focus!_ They had argued, so of course she had gone to the pub, and of course she’d forgotten to take her suppressers. Her scent greeted him when he entered, washing over him, making his cock twitch in his trousers. The pub was filled with beta’s that could not smell the enticing scent his Molly gave out, the one he’d taste between her thighs when he finally –  _concentrate!_ It was typical that they should argue on the night of her heat, with him becoming erratic and her filled with want. He stalked through following the smell of her. Finally he saw her biting at her lip, her crossed legs jiggling from suppressed desire, as the heat was tearing her up from the inside. Of course some idiot alpha was somehow there hovering over her, murmuring into her ear, and he felt instinct take over, “Go away,” he said. He sounded almost drunk, his words rather slurred, but his expression entirely on her. She returned his expression, an almost timid smile playing at her lips; before he saw her tongue wet the pinkness of her lips.

“We’re talking,” said the other alpha, while Sherlock sneered at him in return.

“No,” he snarled, feeling his blood boil, as he gripped the man by his shirt collar, “Leave.” He shoved him away, seeing him hit a barstool unblinkingly, as he covered Molly with his coat, her eyeing him with admiration.

She never enjoyed violence, neither did he, but right now it didn’t matter, despite onlookers.

She leaned against him on the way out, shivering, as she moaned distractingly. His hand trembled from the brief contact with her skin as he covered her with his coat, trying to let himself be distracted as the cold hit them, but she was too warm. He could almost feel her through the thick fabric of his belstaff, “Please,” he heard her beg, “ _Please.”_  

They would never make it, not like this, and he eyed the area until he found a dark alleyway. She clung to him desperately, her mouth finding his, and their tongues tangling together almost violently. He loved that all decency would be thrown aside, that her cunt would be wet for him, allowing him to ease himself underneath her skirt, her back hitting the brick wall, as he thrust into her hard. She almost screamed, her voice echoing in the distance, but no one would stop them. They never ever managed to do so. He was hers and she was his. 


	22. Baser instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yooo i've got a prompt ish: i was listening to arctic monkey's "why'd you only call me when you're high" and i thought of molly and sherlock (and the slap) so anything revolving that premise? maybe something to do with molly's room as his bolt hole when he's high if that works ;)"

When his mind cleared the  _baser_ instincts took over. The two that he supressed the most, and tackled away – hunger and want. Somehow they became one, twisting into one-another, as he found his mind threading the same thought-process.

It was like his mind imagined it would become vivid, different, and enthralling –  _how could he know it wouldn’t?_ But the idea of letting himself roll around in his sheets, feel the texture of this woman’s skin underneath him, or over him did not entice him.  _She_  did not entice him…so he crawled away, ran towards the one he trusted, because she had ‘space’. 

She didn’t notice it, too tired to see it on his face, and he’d cleaned himself for the occasion. He claimed many things, his mind being too erratic, everything jumbled up as he took her guest-bedroom.

It wasn’t far from the truth.  

He didn’t notice the lack of things in the flat, the lack of a ring on her finger, or the way her eyes seemed to be sad in a way they hadn’t been before. He tried to brush the emotions that curled inside him aside, he tried to forget, and he felt he couldn’t breathe in the room – so he moved.

She squealed in surprise at his entry, though calmed down, as he lay on top of the bed. It was only her and she was no danger - he thought, watching her silhouette in the dark.

Words seemed to be at the edge of her lips, and he wished they wouldn’t. He stopped her the only way he could – with his mouth. He didn’t know what he was doing when it happened, her exclaim of surprise in the dark fading away, as she held tightly to him.

This was safe - this was good.  

She whimpered underneath his touch, as his hands slid beneath her large t-shirt, feeling her nipples perking up. He could feel himself turn hard, his erection pressing at her through his trousers, and he was startled when her hand reached for him.  

She didn’t shrink, removing his belt, as her hand wrapped itself around his cock, and he thrust against her involuntarily. He groaned, as her hand spread the pre-cum from the tip, confidently sliding down his throbbing cock.

Without warning he slammed into her, her body already ready for his, desperate even, and he noticed her lack of undergarments. All of it felt so terribly familiar, him thrusting into her, as she started to cry out clawing at his back.

He spread her legs wider, drawing her hips closer, as he slid into her wetness, the sound of their union loud and filthy. She surrounded him with her warmth, his hands finding purchase in her body, in her soft lips, as he let her legs wrap around him, while he dug deep.

And then he found his release.

Seconds turned to minutes, their laboured breathing slowly vanishing, as his mind returned, the brakes slamming on.

He drew on his clothes, quickly, desperately, but she was on his heels, her eyes teary, “Why do you always…you always come here,” she said looking at the floor, soon lifting her brown eyes at him, “Why?”

He couldn’t meet them, he barely knew what he was doing, instinct directing him, want overtaking him, and the pleasure of…her, “Space,” he said. 

And then he ran, because it was the only thing he knew how to do. 


	23. The thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so going to end up doing a proper potter!lock though, mostly a one-shot based on this actual event.

“That Hooper girl fancies you,” John said elbowing him, as he jerked his head towards the hallway where Molly Hooper stood with a flock of girls surrounding her.

“Yes?” he drawled annoyed, pocketing his wand, as he tried to sort out his books. 

They’d just stepped away from the dungeons, heading towards the Great Hall, which he saw as rather pointless, but he understood that John felt inclined to eat consistently.

“ _Well_  – the ball is coming up-,”

“Only champions are required partners.”

“I know – but -,”

“Not my area.”

John raised a brow at him, “I caught you staring at her.”

He almost felt his tongue inflate at the thought of John having caught him. He hadn’t been staring  _too_  often after all, only briefly. Never in the girlish sense of the way, though he didn’t find her unappealing, she was pretty with her pink cheeks.

_No, that wasn’t his point!_

She was a Hufflepuff and a year below him, but clever – really clever. He wouldn’t expect clever in the way she’d acted around him when she began first year, turning abruptly red, and giving him a horrendous valentine, which John never let him live down. Now she was  _different._

But she was still Molly.

Yes, they’d had their minor conversations, and yes she knew how to talk to him just fine now. Impressing him beyond her age and muggleborn status – “Sherlock?” said John waving a hand in front of his face, his mouth a large grin, “You fancy her.”

“No,” he spat sounding far more affronted than he was, taking long steps intending to reach the hall, only to collide into someone.  

Of course he bumped right into  _her_ , causing her small frame to fall to the floor, “Sorry!” he blurted out, reaching out to help her up.

She caught his hand, laughing, “It’s alright – I’m used to it.”

He could feel his palms sweating against the contact of her much cooler hand, which he released hurriedly after she was back on her feet.

Her bright brown eyes turned to him curiously, and he could feel his throat drying up, “Want to go to the thing?” he said in one breath.

She was gaping at him.

He could practically hear John choke on his own spit behind him. Many things startled the Gryffindor, but this was certainly one thing he could add to the list.

“Thing?” she said, her eyebrows drawn, “The ball?”

“I mean – Great Hall.”

“Oh,” she looked disappointed.

He heard a loud slapping sound behind him, and knew it was John, “Of course if you want to go to the ball – we can do that  _too_ -,” he said, not entirely sure why his mouth had taken to shoot off without proper consideration for once, “ – if you want.”

Her smile turned bright, “Ok,” she said, “Um, but I better go – I’ve got to – just – I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course,” he said rather stoically. 

She only seemed to smile even more at that, taking to walk ahead of him, her ponytail bouncing behind her, before she disappeared around the corner. 

He had a feeling he was in a great deal of trouble.

“Right,” said John appearing at his side with crossed arms.

“What?”

“Not my bloody area, right?”

“Watch it, your mother might send you another howler,” said Sherlock smirking, unable to hide his delight, as he ate a great deal more during their lunch than usual. 

 


	24. Dreams

He wakes up half-gasping in the bed, and soon he feels the weight of her hands on his shoulders, slowly wrapping themselves around his chest.

Her chin is leaning on his shoulder, as she whispers, “Bad dream?”

"Nightmare, yes," he says, the tears stinging at his eyes, he tries to blink them away, but he doesn’t manage to.

He remembers why, just as he feels the weight of her behind him. 

"It’ll be ok."

"No," he says with a hollow voice, wrenching himself away from her grip, feeling her stiffen.

He turns around, seeing her - for there she is. 

"What’s wrong?" she asks, her insecurity written bare on her face, and he lets his hand slip onto her cheek, caressing the softness there. 

"You’re not real," he says tearfully. 

She smiles at him, catching his palm, and kissing it, “You’ve got to let me go.”

"Can’t."

"You’ll see me soon."

"Soon is not enough…you know I don’t believe…"

Her smile alters, like she knows something, as she draws him in.

He rests on her chest, hearing her heart beat, “I’ve always believed in  _you_ ,” she said dropping a kiss in his hair. 

—

He wakes, his hand grasping for her side of the bed, and for a single second he almost believes it’s warm. 

 


	25. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John run into Molly (and Tom?) in some bar during John's stag night. S3

**_what_ _they ‘remember’ they said:_ **

"I think we should sit with them."

"No."

"I think we should, come on." 

"Molly -  _Tom,”_  said Sherlock casting a curious look at the man, as he drew on a smile that did not reach his eyes.

He was playing it cool. 

**_what they actually said:_ **

"Look!" said Sherlock pointing. 

Molly Hooper sat gaping in the distance, her eyebrows drawn together, as Tom was sat besides with her with an equally confused expression. 

"Wha-," said John wheeling around on the spot, shaking his head a bit, as he tried to find his bearings. 

"LOOK! _LOOK!_ Over there! It’s Molly and her _fiancé,”_ said Sherlock with a frown, which he certainly hid poorly. 

"Oh, Molly - and -  _you_ , right?”

"Me - what are you - he doesn’t - _nooo_  - he doesn’t look like me at all - look at the length of his coat - it’s too - too long.”

"Riiiiiight, don’t think so."

"YES, IT IS. IT’S FIVE INCHES LONGER THAN MINE. Clearly compensating for…something!"

"Doesn’t look like it," said John grumpily. 

"We should sit with them, don’t you think? Yes, let’s sit with them. I think we should, it’s a brilliant idea -  _come on_.”

John opens his mouth, though never gets out an answer, only burping, before walking along with Sherlock. 

"MOLLY! MOLLY! MOLLY!"

_**what they ‘thought’ they said:** _

Tom has left the table, so has John, as Sherlock takes hold of her hand, “Molly, it’s important you listen to me now. It’s crucial you do, ok?”

"Okay?"

"I…Molly, obviously -," Tom returns, and he lets go of her hand. 

**_what they actually said:_ **

"I don’t like you!" he spat to Tom. "MOLLY," he said taking her hand in his, a serious expression on his face, his eyes turning watery, "I love - love - looooveeee -  _dancing_.”

"Okay?"

_**what they ‘think’ they said:** _

”- obviously you’re just a replacement, I’m afraid - this engagement won’t last - a surprise it has-,”

Molly looks away from him, shielding her face. 

"Sherlock!" snapped John rubbing at his temples, his eyebrows practically grinding into his forehead. 

_**what they ‘actually’ said:** _

”- just a poor mock-copy of me, look at you - with your - rubbish curls - you’re not _even_ trying! It’s not even the proper shade of black-,” he grabs a fistful of his curls, showing it to them, as Molly stares at him in utter disbelief, and Tom looks more and more put out. 

John jumps into the conversation, finger shakily pointing at Tom, “Comple- comple - completely agree - just look at you - fake - it’s not  _cool_  when you pop your collar up, just not cool mate.” 

Sherlock props up his collar, and John points at him nodding vigorously. 

Molly stifles a laugh, shielding her face, while Tom crosses his arms with a huff. 

**_what they ‘assume’ they said:_ **

Her eyes are pleading with him, practically begging him to go with her, and he sighs, “I’ll go with you, of course I will Molly.”

She stares at him in return. 

**_what they ‘actually’ said:_ **

Molly stands up to leave with Tom, but Sherlock grabs her hand, “Umm…Sherlock, I think you need to let go,” she says, when he just mumbles softly, attempting to convey a conversation with her stomach. 

"I NEED your bedroom," he finally grunts. 

"Sorry - what’s he talking about your bedroom for?" says Tom half-gaping.

John who has his head on the table, lifts it up, and gapes at the three of them, before giggling soundly. 

"He just tends to kip there," Molly says quickly. 

"WHAT?"


	26. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock and Molly's wedding night. Fluffy or smutty - Cumberbabeusa

She stole into the room, her nightgown thin and shifting against her slim shape, while she took in the sight of her husband still inconveniently dressed at the end of the bed, a book perched in his hand.

Mr Holmes, however, did not look his usually attired self, more ruffled around the edges. His cravat was loose, his shirt partly open revealing his pale chest. “Good evening,” she said biting her lip, her cheeks flushing, and amusement stirring in her chest when he managed to drop said book onto the floor with a loud bang. 

He swept down, looking less gentleman-like and more like a youth, his eyes thrown up at her wide and almost unrecognizable. She still knew that look, had seen it many a times when she’d wandered throughout the gardens of his home and walked upon his accidentally (but she was convinced it was upon his want and design that she found him), though she never saw what she saw now. 

It was their first night, the first time more than their hands would touch, more than their lips would gently brush in secrecy, and she could not pretend that it both terrified and excited her.  _Sherlock_  who she had thought would be such a cold man, who she had thought so cruelly of in belief of some fantasized injustice thrown upon him by the villain James Moriarty. 

"Good evening," he whispered, swallowing promptly, before he dashed off with the book, though he soon threaded around the room uncertain where to place it, before he flung it aside unceremoniously. 

She laughed, her eyes brightening at the sight, before he swept her into his arms, kissing at her temple and cheek, his lips warm against her skin. “It is perhaps foolish to say it, but I wish only to relive this moment again and again.” 

"Why is that?"

He smiled at her, wrapping his large hands on her slim once, bringing them to his chest so she could feel the beating of his heart, prominent and loud. “Because this is the moment our life begins.” 


	27. Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: After getting drunk and being escorted out by his pathologist, he gets protective when many men try to grab Molly's arse so he's like: "i watch the butt, i protect the butt, without this butt my life is useless, i will serve and protect this butt with my life"

She blinked, bent around turning to see Sherlock staring at her. “What - what are you doing?” said Molly. 

"I am protecting you," he murmured. 

Molly stared around her flat. “Against what?”

Sherlock sniffed importantly, his palms pressed together. “Others.”

"There’s no one here?" she said stifling a laugh. 

"Yes, but your bottom." 

"My bottom?" she said gaping slightly, her mouth a round ‘oh’. Of course, he’d been ridiculously close to her when they’d left the party, trailing after her back, but she just assumed he was really keen on leaving, and not protecting her rear. 

"It flirts when you’re not looking," he said thoughtful, his eyes narrowed at her posterior.

"It flirts?" she said with a raised brow.

He scoffed. “Yes,” he bit out. 

Molly snorted. “No, it doesn’t.”

"The curve of it - the fullness - this is a bottom that could devastate any country, make a man confess, perhaps even put a stopper to death. So I  _need_  - to protect this bottom - with  _my life_  Molly Hooper.” Perhaps his speech would have been 1/10 convincing if he’d not slurred his way through most of it. 

"That’s a bit dramatic."

"I lay down my sword-,"

"Your sword?" she said smiling. "What kind of sword?" Sherlock stared up at her in surprise, seeming to finally notice how close she stood in front of him. 


	28. Sorcery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I may have a challenge worthy of you: Little mermaid AU where Molly asked to be human. She has failed to remain human and the one who gave her legs has come to collect the payment for the spell. Plot twist: Sherlock is the sea witch (wizard? sorcerer-thingy?)

She stares at the dagger in her hand, the sheen of it evident even under the darkness of the water around  _him._ "You must kill her." Molly blanched, looking at him with wide-eyes, unable to even say anything. "Your loves bride," he continued as if in explanation. No, she understood quite thoroughly what he meant, balancing the dagger in her hand slightly, bemused. It took her a while before she held the point between her breasts, a streak of blood streaming forward. 

There is no intention to take the plunge, only wait and see how long it takes for him to understand. The sea sorcerer was rumored to be cleverer than this. He’d ensnared and tricked her with his guise at the beginning, letting her believe he was human. He did not seem to understand the consequence of those very actions. “What are you doing?” it is said as a mere whisper, barely shaking the depths of the sea an inch. 

Her gaze is innocent when it meets his. “You said I would have to take my loves bride-,” she said, and he takes the dagger away from her, staring. 

"But is it not the Prince, you want?" he said looking shocked. 

"No," she said at a loss. 

She had only become friends with Prince Thomas, no more than that, as he found her shelter on the sea. “Do you not wish to be human?”

"I only wish to be where my love is," she said with a small smile, taking in the sight of him slowly understanding. "That’s all I’ve ever wanted." 


	29. Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heard you wanted prompts, so here's one: Sherlock accidentally drugged himself with his latest experiment and thinks he's a dragon called Smaug (poor John was chased out of Baker Street mistaken for a hobbit). If convenient, make it Sherlolly. If inconvenient, make it Sherlolly.

He could feel his chest expanding, the fire crackling underneath the scales, wanting to be let out. “Sherlock?” a voice said nervously. There was a maiden, obviously a sacrifice, oh those peasants enjoyed sending him little playthings, to show how they envied his power. “How much did you have?” the maiden continued, her brown eyes trained on him, but she did not seem nervous. 

 _"You should fear me."_ She did not fear his deep and dark voice that whispered throughout the corners of the dungeon, beneath his feet gold, softer than usual, but he accepted it. Perhaps time had made them soft, or that dastard Hobbit had truly tricked him, running out before he could use his fire to grind him into dust and ash. 

"Umm, right," said the maiden who seemed amused. 

He stretched himself out of his makeshift thrown, prowling to stand in front of her, almost startled to find that he had arms and legs. Had she bewitched him? She looked ordinary, yet there was a twinkling in her eye he could not deny, her gaze locking him into place. “Sherlock? she said finally looking up at him nervously. He still towered over her in this form and he felt amusement to feel her skin underneath his palm, an unusual feeling. Oh, he enjoyed it. She squeaked, her eyes wide. “Don’t - you shouldn’t - just - tell me how much you had, please?”

He brought his lips near hers, hoping the flames would not burn her sweet lips, as he took them over, caressing them with his own.

Perhaps humanity was not so disgusting in the end. 


	30. Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I send a prompt? A drunk Sherlock sexting Molly

It was in the middle of the afternoon, and she sighed catching sight of her phone flashing on her desk. She almost groaned wondering what Sherlock would want now. He’d been asking for her help in how to tackle the male version of a ‘baby shower’ (read: getting pissed in the afternoon, congratulating each other often), either it was if he could leave early or if she had any tips to what he should give John. Both of those times she’d written one-worded texts, too busy to contemplate proper answers. Picking up her phone she stared at her screen in surprise. 

_How does one make baby? - SH_

She laughed in surprise. 

**What?**

_Curious._

**I think we both know that you know how that happens Sherlock.**

_You should be a teacher._

**_I’m a pathologist._ **

_I mean MY teacher._

**Okay. How pissed are you?**

_I AM NOT DRUNK._

**Fine. Come over at my place later then.**

He was clearly making fun of her the idiot, and so she ignored the texts he sent after that, but it wasn’t before she got home later that evening that she found him rather ready for a lesson. 


	31. Under the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hours of crap telly I just need vampire!sherlock and werewolf!molly. Can you please help me? °3°

"Where are you?" he whispered against the dark. He was at a disadvantage, here she could smell, here she could hear him. Everything about her sharper and much more present than his blood that boiled at the brief taste of her. It was forbidden, perhaps that was why he took such delight in it, and perhaps why she had not pushed him away for she felt that quiet between them, that undeniable pull throbbing through the air.

Not once had he ever felt like this throughout millenniums of existing, of coping. No, finally he had met his match, and she did not belong to his kind. His older brother would sneer at such a thing.  _"Of course you would chose difficulty above everything else."_

From the darkness of the forest, he heard a crackle of leaves and he knew she was only allowing him to hear. If she was unwilling she could trap him and let the woods swallow him up. And he barely flinched when he saw the black wolf walk forward, its eyes gleaming in the dark, glowing yellow, before she stood before him. There was no shyness as she stood there, her nipples pebbling against the cold, despite her advantages her body still did not hide its want.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"You."  


	32. The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Pirate!Sherlock and Mermaid!Molly

She prodded his chest, but he wasn’t wakening. She didn’t know how humans worked. His chest did not seem to rise nor were his eyes open. He was pale and cold - almost like her - she did the only thing she could think of - she slapped him. It hurt doing it, but she did not know what else to do. It was the first time she’d saved a human, an act that was forbidden, and he didn’t even seem to be alive anymore.

The humans would kill her if they understood what she was, but he’d seen her before, briefly. His blue eyes had been wide in disbelief, as his wild dark curls drifted across his fine forehead upon that forsaken ship that was now a wreckage in the bottom of the depths. 

She’d never seen anyone handle a ship on their own before, not like that, and there was no surprise that he’d been in trouble in the storm.

He gasped for air, his eyes wide open and colour seeming to appear in his cheeks again. 

Molly drew back, hands pushing her backward in the sand, as she stared at him in shock. 

Their eyes meet and he stared at her. “You - you - you’re  _real_ -,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, before he began to cough, and she reached out for him, helping him to sit up, while he stared in return. His eyes barely strayed to her tail, though she saw that he wanted to stare openly, curiosity obvious in his gaze. “You saved me?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. She’d never truly spoken. She’d never had anyone to speak to before. What was she to say? Her first words needed to be significant. “Why?” he asked. 

Molly did not have the words to tell him why, but she knew her heart would ache to see him perish alone like that, alone like her. 

"What’s your name?" he said after a minute. 

Instead of saying it, she bit her lip, her eyes darting off to the water again. The sea had turned calm, if she did not delay she would not be in trouble.

No one would ever need to know of her being there. 

"Sherlock. I’m Sherlock Holmes."

She turned to look at him. “Sherlock?” she said, and a smile seemed to blossom upon his face. 

 


	33. Teenlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just various teenlock-things smashed together.

Her glasses are in the way, though she promptly slips them off, licking at her lips, while she does so, as his hands are still gingerly positioned on her slightly bare shoulders. It’s not exactly the place he wants his hands to go, hardly, though he doesn’t know where to put them.

"Umm, maybe you should put your hands on my waist?" she said, biting her lip, distracting him even more.

 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to play out, it’s supposed to be a surprise, a great moment, though it’s more the equivalent of two childhood friends trying to escape the confides of friendship more than anything else. Except, for once she’s the one with the vast knowledge, the one who knows how things function. Of course she’d know -  _look at her_  - it was difficult to look anywhere else really, especially with the pair of them positioned on his bed. Before they’d hang out in there normally, with him annoyed over her idiotic boyfriends and her aggravated with his  _figuring_  them out (“You always ruin everything!”) But  _he’s_  the boyfriend, he’s the one this time, and he’s going to make an absolute mess out of it. 

She’s staring at him, her brown eyes curious, her smile large, as she said, “Maybe we should-,” And that’s the very second he stops thinking, and starts doing instead. Molly’s surprise squeal makes his insides squirm, especially when he muffles down any other sound, except the small hums of pleasure, as he has her soon pressed down against the mattress, him above her. It’s pleasant,  _well_ , more than pleasant really, as her lips are much softer than he ever imagined, so is the shape of her pressed against him. 

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

He scrambles off her quickly, breathlessly staring at his mother in the doorway. Immediately the default answer he always says when he’s done something wrong, blurts out of his tingling mouth, “It’s Mycroft’s fault!”

* * *

 

His door.

_Open._

Privacy became non-negotiable when Molly visited his room, unlike the good old days when nobody bothered if they got eerily quiet, but then the pair of them would be sitting with books across their laps, instead of being _in_  each other’s laps.

 

No, the door had to be open these days, unlike if they were at hers, but today that wasn’t an option due to her grandmother being over for the weekend, wrecking havoc in the usually harmonic family dynamic. Unlike his own family where his mother stuck her nose into everything – Molly’s did not, which was perhaps why Molly enjoyed being at his, despite the lack of touching… 

He had suggested being outside, though the rain pouring down dashed those plans. Not that his mother wouldn’t be enquiring after their route anyway, as was her want, before most likely joining the pair on them on their journey.

He couldn’t exactly run off with her through the rain, the pair of them seeking shelter beneath a tree, the rainwater making her flowery top cling, before he sought out her mouth desperately – his hand sliding beneath her blouse to feel her shiver against the palm of his – “Are you even listening?” she says, her brown eyes narrowed ever so slightly, giving off that she knew entirely where his mind had gone.

He’d made promises to not drift off, but it was rather difficult, when her blouse was riding upwards, the tiniest bit of her skin revealing itself to him, sitting on his bed, pillows bunched under her head. And he was banished to sit on the floor, attempting to focus on his paper, rather poorly.

“Yes,” he says slowly, while she distracts him even more as she flops on her stomach on the bed, settling her book aside.

She grinned, soon biting at her lip, her cheeks rather flushed – somehow – he should have been listening, obviously.   

“Oh, right, so –  _do_  you want to then?” she says, an innocent expression on her face, while he tries to recall what she’d been talking about earlier. 

Molly had been abusing her grandmother quite heavily, or was it her mother? Sometimes it was hard to tell, but he had an inkling it involved - them – dinner – and him in some horrid suit.

“No,” he says, furrowing his brows, directing his eyes instead to his paper, grabbing the pen more firmly in his hand.

The silence that followed however unsettled him, since Molly always talked, in some fashion or the other, but when he looked up she was staring with a frown at the pages of her book, looking the opposite of her usual cheery self.

Obviously he’d have to go, considering his  _duties_ , which his brother relished making fun of him for. He was in a relationship and however, upsetting the occasion he would have to partake in the dull evenings, despite the lack of a proper reward, but when it came to her happiness – he would make his sacrifices.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes slightly, throwing his paper aside with a grimace, “I’ll have dinner.”

She looks up from her book, completely bewildered, staring at him for a few seconds, until she gapes and says, “You  _really_ weren’t listening, were you?”

“Dinner, of course, I was listening. You need me because your grandmother is going to have dinner with your parents tomorrow and –  _oh_ …” then it dawns upon him, her face so obviously flushed, her eyes above his head – “They’re going to have dinner, but you’re-,”

“Home alone, yes,” she says with a slow nod.

“Oh…” 

She grinned, “So…”

“And you  - want – you want-,” 

“If  _you_  want to-,” 

His throat turns dry, “I – umm – I – yes?” 

“Okay, then,” she says with a broad smile, directing her attention to her book again, though her brown eyes turn up again at him nervously.

For a few seconds he sits there on the floor absolutely taken aback by the situation, his body tense, before he quickly stands up, slams his bedroom door shut – and distinctly hears his mothers voice in the floor bellow – “ _Sherlock William Scott Holmes!”_

He knows there’ll be consequences, but he climbs on top of his girlfriend who squeaks loudly in surprise, hurriedly capturing her lips, glad to savour the feeling of her arms sliding around his back, before his bedroom door bangs open, “Worth it,” he mumbles against her lips, enjoying the smile on her face, before he pulls back in regret. 

* * *

"Nervous, little brother?" says Mycroft, leaning back in the chair by the kitchen table smugly, his glee unimaginably large. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, chewing soundly on his scrambled eggs, getting curious glances from both his parents, especially considering he’d just announced  _where_  he was going. 

"Oh, what’s going on then?" his mother asks, eyeing him curiously. 

There have been setbacks after setbacks and now his brother has finally decided to intervene, “It’s a big day for Sherlock I believe - rather revolutionizing actually,” says Mycroft, “Why don’t you tell them? I imagine they’ll be very proud.” 

"Yes, you’ve got a project on, didn’t you say?" says his father, causing him to blink, "I think you and Molly will do just fine, as long as the pair of you be careful - I think you’re more than ready."

Mycroft’s joy plummeted, while Sherlock’s confidence rose. 

"I haven’t heard about this, what kind of project is it Arthur?" says his mother, looking suddenly pleased. 

"Oh, Miriam. You know what he and Molly gets up to - with minds like those two I can only imagine it will be splendid," says his father with a wink, and Sherlock quickly excuses himself from the table, breathing a sigh of relief, while alarmed that he’d just somehow had  _the talk_  with his father.

* * *

Staring up at the pink ceiling of her bedroom, the duvet tucked underneath his chin, while neither of them managed to speak wasn’t his definition of a moment of bliss, quite the opposite.

He’d excused himself after a solid hour of awkward shuffling underneath the sheets, which more or less resembled their recent activities to a tee (though shorter than an hour), except no one had seemed to have required extra limbs all of a sudden, their elbows bouncing about unexpectedly, hitting places that certainly did not desire to have a blow.

 

That incident had taken place  _one month ago_ , whenever she did come round to his now, and his mother ventured into his room convinced they were doing something rude, they were sat reading or doing schoolwork. 

It was as if they’d pushed the reset button on their relationship. 

Neither of them wanted to talk about the incident, perhaps both of them wanting it to have never happened. They’d been excited before that, as she dragged him inside her house, telling him that her parents were not returning before the next day, before they both ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

Except the giddiness vanished and was replaced with something entirely unsavoury; nerves, both of them so agitated that it ended in something he hesitated to even call _sex._ It didn’t feel like sex was supposed to feel, according to the books he’d read up on the subject. He knew everything in theory, but in execution, considering the travesty he’d been involved in - there was no wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

Sherlock had to admit that he got rather disturbed when his mother seemed worried by their lack of indecent behaviour, asking them if they were alright, even brewing them tea at some point, while they both just shook their head in return, muttering ‘fine’. He’d always thought that he and Molly could talk about anything, or at least she would do the talking, and he’d eventually manage to do so himself, except the entire situation had twisted itself on its head. Even his mother had started to let him have his bedroom door shut, not barging in every five minutes if they became too silent, just like they were before they entered in a relationship. 

One evening, as Molly was once more at his, their conversation going in all directions, except the one direction they needed it to be, his mother popped her head in, “Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Mrs Holmes?” she said looking up from her book sat on the floor, while he sat on his bed, both of them unusually far from each other.   

His mother tutted, grimacing slightly, she always disliked it when Molly referred to her so formally, “Your mother called, told me that she and your father won’t be making it home tonight because of the weather, so they’ll be at your Uncle Tom’s – I suggested you stay here for the night, and now I need to ask you of course.”

Molly smiled, “I’d like that.”

“Good, that’s settled – _Sherlock_  – you’ll sort out the sleeping arrangements, then?” 

He furrowed his brows, “Yes,” he said suspiciously, only to have his mother walk off with a hurried goodnight. For many minutes he hesitated saying it, but eventually he did, “You’ll sleep in my bed then?” 

“Yeah,” said Molly absentmindedly.

“Good,” he said eyeing the back of her head, “With me as well?” 

“Yea-,” she suddenly stopped, before she turned around to look up at him, “I – is that a good idea?”

“We used to sleep together all the time.”

“When we were ten yes, but it’s – it’s _different_  now.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed, are you referring to the thing we’re obviously not talking about?”

Her eyes grew wide, her lips pressed together, as she said in the calmest voice she could muster, “If you want to break it off with me, then just do – don’t make  _me_  do it, because you know I won’t!”

“What?” he said with raised brows.

She blinked at him, “What do you mean what?” 

“What else could I mean with what? I have no plans in breaking up with you Molly – I was convinced  _you_  were ending it.”

“Why would you think that?” she said frowning.

“Shall I address the elephant in the room?” 

She cleared her throat, “Well – that’s – that’s besides the point – you haven’t even touched me or tried kissing me-,”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to-,” 

Somehow she began to laugh. He didn’t entirely understand how this was at all funny, but she did have an odd sense of humour. Eventually she became quiet again and said, “Okay, I’ll sleep with you.” 

“Good,” he said directing his attention to his essay, his handwriting getting more unreadable by the second, before he looked up, “I think we need to try again.”

“What?” her voice was brighter than usual, and he saw pink spots in her cheeks, “Here? _Now?”_  

“We’ve had projects together before – how is this any different?”

“It’s hardly something we’ll show off to our parents!” 

 “I think we should try again,” he said seriously.

She was looking at her book again, her eyes seemingly fixed on the page, “But what if it’s not-,” she began in a small voice. 

“Then we’ll do it again-,”

Molly laughed, “Like we do any project?”

“We’ve always received top marks as far as I can remember,” he said with a small smile, as she looked at him grinning.

“Okay, we’ll try again, then…”

——

**_Years later –_ **

_Tradition._ That’s the line his mother served him the instant they were both cooped up in his old childhood home, days before the wedding – tradition – that’s the reply he got, as his future wife was whisked away to her own bedroom, looking all-too amused at his antics. Arguing with his mother proved pointless of course, his father awkwardly helping with some remarks about him being an adult of course, which did the opposite of soothing his mother’s resolve – “Well, at least then we know you’ll manage to stay in your room for the night. Molly will have the guest bedroom – end of discussion!”

He’d nodded at that, muttering ‘Fine’, of course he snuck out of his bedroom when he knew his mother had dozed off, knowing her habits by heart. Entering the guest bedroom proved easy, though the look on Molly’s face was the opposite of pleased, “Sherlock!” she hissed, the sheet under her chin, her face rather red, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It didn’t take much deducing to understand what she was  _doing_  – “Are you actually-,”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly, and he smirked.

“Molly Hooper – in my parents house of all places – rather inappropriate, don’t you think?” he said striding towards the bed, his eyes gleaming as he looked down at her. She was close, he could see it on her face – “What were you thinking of?” he whispered. 

She grimaced, “Sherlock, your mum-,” 

“Is asleep, though that depends entirely on-,”

“What?” she said slowly. 

“How loud-,” he started, though he didn’t finish his sentence, lifting up the sheet at the end of the bed causing Molly to gasp, before he disappeared under it, spreading her legs wider, until he was between them dipping his tongue in her already wet centre – “you are-,” he said, as he paused, enjoying the sound of her attempting to silence herself, though that familiar moan burst forward anyway to his immense pleasure. He was most certainly going to receive his highest mark and Molly, the highest note.

 

 


	34. Flashback

He ruffled his hair, staring into the mirror with a slight frown, as he remembered faintly how he’d gotten to  _this_  point.

—

Finally he had her against a tree, a moan escaping her lips, while she pulled him closer with a pleased throaty sound, until he heard  _another_  throaty sound. 

Grimacing he drew back, her expression lost, as he heard his older brother, “Enjoying the scenery little brother?”

 

He soon dragged Molly along giggling the entire route, until they found a more secluded spot, and he silenced her well enough.

—

“What are you doing?” said a voice from the doorway, causing the pair of them to separate rather quickly, pulling at their clothes, as they saw with flushed faces Molly’s little brother looking at them with interest. 

“Ummm,” she started, “We’re – we’re kissing.”

“Like mummy and daddy?” he said, as Molly looked towards Sherlock, obviously hoping he’d assist, but he kept his tongue.

“Yes, like mum and dad,” she said with a small smile.

“Except you were laying down. What did you need to lay down for?”

“Sex,” Sherlock blurted out, while Molly shut her eyes horrified. 

—

He wasn’t supposed to kiss her when she was crying, especially after her father just died, but he needed to do something. Words weren’t good enough. He didn’t know what to say, and for once when his mother came barging in, she bore a small smile, “Do the pair of you need something to eat?” she asked, as Molly shook her head quickly, looking down at the carpet.

When his mother left, Molly had pulled her hand out of his grip, and was hugging herself, “We’re moving,” she said, eyeing him, “Mum wants to have a fresh start, and I – I think it’s a good idea.”

She stands up before he can protest, “I’m giving you an out,” she said, her back to him, “I thought you’d like that…after all…you’ve been-,” she never finishes what’s she’s about to say, and before he knows it she’s run off. 

—

“I meant a friendly coffee, you know,” she mumbled, when he strode into the lab to get his riding crop.

“I do,” he said, avoiding her gaze, “But I -,”

He’s surprised when he feels her lips on his cheeks, ever so faintly, before it’s over as the door swings open and Mike Stamford walks in, “You’ve got a flatmate, then,” he said, stopping short, “ _Oh_.” 

— 

John had wondered where Sherlock had been off to, and when he got to St Bart’s the second Mycroft had explained, he stopped short when he heard voices –

“What do you need?”

“You.” 

“We can’t,” it’s Molly Hooper.

“Not _now_  we can’t.”

“Sherlock, I can’t wait – I just can’t-,” 

All he hears is muffled silence, and when he glimpses through the glass he sees the two figures moulded together, “Please stop…stop this – you don’t do… relationships.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

John walks off confused and bewildered, waiting for when Sherlock is alone instead.

—

"Why are you here?" she asked, a crease appearing between her brows.

"Where’s  _Tom?”_

_“_ He’s at work-,” she said, still blocking his path. 

"Good, because I can’t stay at Baker Street."

"Why?"

He gets past her, to her apparent frustration, but she smacks the door to her flat shut huffing past him. 

"There’s a woman there."

"A woman?"

"A woman."

"Ok…well-,"

"She’s not my girlfriend."

"I wasn’t asking."

"She only thinks she is."

Molly blinked up at him, “Right…could you just go, before Tom gets here?”

"Worried?"

"I’m not worried."

"Then why do I need to leave, then? Trouble in paradise?"

She purses her lips, “No.”

"Hmm. Obviously there is."

"Shut up-,"

"Or?" he said with a raised brow. 

"Why are you - why are you being so-,"

"I’m just telling you what I actually feel-,"

"And what’s that, then?"

It feels the same, like retracing ones steps - when his lips collide against hers, and his hands seeks the warmth of her body. He can feel her giving in, despite her reluctance, until he suddenly hears the door to her flat slam open, “ _Molly_.”

Seconds tick by, until he draws for breath, “I should go.”

—

"Engagement really off then?"

"Sherlock," she said, "I’m sorry."

"I deserved it," he said, "Slapping me isn’t such a terrible thing, Molly. I think very many dream of doing it as well."

She laughed, “You’re an idiot.”

He can see the tears building in her eyes, “I am alive.”

"You got shot," she said with a huff, "You didn’t fall down some stairs."

"I think I’d enjoy that more."

"I should go."

"No."

"No?"

"Stay."

"And do what? I can’t sit here all night, you know."

"There’s enough room on my bed, it’s sufficient enough for the pair of us - if you cared to notice."

She giggles, “You’ve never really changed.”

"No…I’ve just been waiting."

Her expression is timid, until she rises to her feet, before carefully settling at his good side on the bed. He drops a kiss on her forehead rather softly, its intent rather chaste, until he slowly works his way down her face, across her eyelids, on her cheeks and then her lips. 

The door swings open, and he knows immediately who it is by their sigh, “Oh, must we be nostalgic today, as well?” It’s Mycroft, but Sherlock is rather surprised to find a rather pleased look on his brother’s face. 

—

“Jesus!” shouted John, hand soon shielding his face from the pair of adults snogging the living daylights out of each other. 

“Get out.” 

“Can’t you two just-,”

“No!” 

He knew they were glad to be alive after the whole Moriarty mess, but they weren’t teenagers. 

—

Sherlock smirked at his reflection in the mirror. There had been many obstacles along their way, most of them made by themselves, but now there were no hurdles to overcome.  

Well,  _almost._

“You ready?” said John grinning.

Sherlock nodded.

For once he could kiss Molly Hooper with everyone looking, for in mere hours she would finally become Mrs Holmes.

 


	35. Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenlock library smut

She’s giggling the whole way, while he drags her past the shelves, passing section upon section, until he finds the one least visited (the dust is more visible, the copies less frayed), and he has no idea what to do. Molly’s mirth is undeniable, her brown eyes sparkling, as she leans back on the shelf, hands clasped behind her, “So? What was it you wanted to show me?” she asked carefully, obviously understanding what he’d planned, though not entirely certain he can execute. 

It’s been weeks -  _well_  – one week and three days since their last ‘encounter’. Not that he’s been counting or paying attention, whatsoever.

No, he has not.

Except he has, and she knows he has, since he sees the apparent glee in her eyes, the slow raised brow, “Sherlock?” It takes him seconds to step towards her, catching her lips quickly, as if he’s never tasted their familiar flavour before, like he doesn’t know every contour of her face, when his hands reach for her, his fingertips brushing at her cheeks. 

Her response is immediate, dragging him against her, books shaking on the shelves behind her, but she does not laugh. No, she only sighs against his mouth, her hands wrapping themselves around his back, as she draws him in, the pair of them clinging to each other desperately. 

His hands slide underneath her blouse, feeling her take an intake of breath, as he nibbles at her neck, his favourite part of her, the smooth pale neck riddled with faded marks from his lips.

She’s branded, for she is his, as he is hers, and it takes a great deal out of him as he feels her hand on the front of his trousers, skimming on his bulge, before she slowly opens his trousers giggling.

He lets his mouth crash down on hers again, muffling the sound away, and bunches up her skirt, while he pushes her gently into the bookcase, soon lifting her up, his arms wrapped around her.

Her knickers are already soaking when he begins to adjust himself, briefly touching her heat with his fingertips to be sure, but she seems to get off on the thought that anyone can find them.

Every part of her is hot to the touch.

Perhaps it’s the humid air, almost making steam rise from every book in the library, but he shakes that thought away – instead – focusing on sinking deeply into her, earning a moan from her pink lips. 

Molly receives him eagerly, her mouth open and panting, her nails digging into his back, for they’ve never done this position before, it’s different and something he’d already like to revisit. 

Especially because of the look on her face, her eyes pressed shut, as she bites at her lip; a look of pain and pleasure so visible on her face that he’s tipping over, loosing every bit of that restraint he’s been trying to school himself into. But she comes first, her body convulsing, and with one last thrust, he empties himself in her.

It’s that quiet moment he loves the most, leaning his forehead against hers, for he sees the flicker of what he feels clearly in her brown eyes, shining against him, and it almost hurts to see it, but he knows what he feels, even if he’s scared to say so. 

 


	36. Birthdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your work! I was wondering, could you possibly write a Sherlolly fic based on the Taylor Swift song ''The Moment I Knew'' - but with a happy ending? The song isn't hard to understand, if you listen to it.

"Night," she said grinning, nodding happily, while she slowly tried to shut close the door to her flat, but John held it up for a minute.

He gave a wordless look at Mary who walked off with a small wave of her hand, “You alright?” he said in a low voice. 

"Why wouldn’t I be? Not often people throw me a surprise party-,"

"Molly, he’s not - he’s not really good at these things."

"Who?" she said, blinking furiously, hand perched on her hip, but John gave her a look. "I know - he’s not and I’m alright, I promise."

"Okay then - just ring me if there’s anything, or well, ring Mary at least if there’s anything you need."

"Still loads of cake left, don’t need much more than that, but I think I’ll kip in early."

"Right, goodnight and happy birthday."

And with that he walked away, finally giving her the chance to close her door with a firm thud. Molly took a deep breath, steeling herself, knowing fully-well that Sherlock wasn’t made for parties or social events, if they weren’t forced on him in his own flat. He didn’t even how up at John’s birthday party, so she couldn’t exactly think she was an exception to the rule, or that she mattered in _that_  way.

Giving a large sniff, she settled on her sofa, intending to indulge in some wine when her camera phone started to chime. At first she ignored it, knowing fully well what it would say - “ _I’m sorry.”_ She really couldn’t stomach that at the moment, feeling more inclined to abuse him text-wise, than accept his apology. After having drunk a bit too much already, smudging out her red lipstick, she knew she’d write something she’d regret like ‘wanker’. It felt tempting however, but instead she poured herself a full glass, the wine almost splattering on the front of her dress, while she hummed a tune to herself laughing at the thought of sending him ‘wanker’. 

To her surprise, another chime was heard, and her brown eyes flashed towards the screen of her phone, “Don’t read it,” she whispered to herself, suddenly glad when her cat Toby leapt onto her lap, distracting her from his all-too late texts. 

The third chime made her take a large gulp of wine, before she grudgingly brought the camera phone, against her better judgement, “Right, let’s see what he says then-,”

The classic - “I’m sorry,” was there, with the, “I’m not good with these sort of things,” but - the, “I’ve got you a present,” caught her off guard. She stared at her screen, taken even more aback when another text appeared, “I’m in your bedroom.”

Molly had been in her bedroom not long ago, and there hadn’t been anyone hiding about in there, but she was determined to check. Sweeping Toby off her lap, before setting down her glass of wine, she walked off to the bedroom, and was unsurprised to find it empty. 

She shook her head, about to walk back, when amidst her turn she ran into something, or someone…”Sherlock?” she gasped. 

He smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling, “Happy birthday Molly Hooper,”

In his hand was a tiny jewelry box, “Oh,” she said baffled, “I thought-,”

"I lied - I did -  _obviously_  - the fire escape to your bedroom window is rather in a poor state. I’d suggest alerting your land lord, frankly. It makes for a difficult climb, thought I might avoid risking my neck.”

Molly laughed, “Is that for me, then?”

"No, I thought your cat might enjoy some jewelry." 

She frowned at him, “Well, I hardly expected you to show up, and now you’ve got me - _a present._ ”

"It is your birthday - so - take it-,"

"There’s no-,"

"Molly, I’ll hardly find any use for it."

Snorting she gingerly grabbed the box out of his hands, slowly opening it up, a broad smile spreading her lips, “A necklace.”

"A heart, anatomically correct even…I thought you might like it."

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking at the necklace with slight astonishment. 

"Do you need help?"

"Hmm?" she said looking up, "Oh, right, yeah, thanks."

He brought the necklace out of the box, while she turned so she had her back to his front, highly aware of his fingers sliding her hair away to one side, or the way his fingertips tickled as the cold silver slid around her throat. She grinned when it hung around her throat, her hand closing around the heart, while she turned around to thank him.

Except when she did that, she was surprised at the very serious look in his eye, “I apologize for not having been here with the others - I just - I wanted -,”

"I know you’re rubbish at the parties, it’s alright," she said, "I’m glad you’re here though, even if it’s late."

"No, Molly - I meant - I wanted you for myself."

It was difficult not to gape at him, or burst out in laughter. Both she did in utter disbelief, until she walked out in the living room, intending to have him explain himself - but then she saw the candles lit about in the room, all shining like Christmas lights. 

"The homeless network, or well - Wiggins." 

She turned to look at him still gaping, “Haven’t you ever wondered why he keeps calling you  _missus_?” he said with a small smile. 


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're still doing prompts,teenlock where Sherlock and Molly hook up in Sherlock's car,intending for it to be a one time only thing. They realize afterwards that they both want more from each other.other. Doesn't have to be smut if you don't want to

"You should - umm -  drive?" she said clenching the school books to her front again, tugging at her pink cardigan, while she eyed the unlit cigarette he’d put between his lips, and the leather jacket.

That kind of thing had never happened before, a stranger driving past with his car, looking at her intently, and so she spoke to him first, causing his car to halt by her street. Before she knew it she was in his car, her skirt hiked up, his fingertips ghosting against her warmth, while she tasted coffee and cigarettes on his lips. 

"Of course," he said, though the engine did not start, nor did he move his hand to the car-keys. He sat unmovable until he turned his head to face her. "What’s your name?"

They’d said no names or he’d said no names. She’d agreed in the end. It was less complicated, less difficult to face, and there’d not be any of that awkwardness, but she knew neither had ever done anything. “I - think you’re just being-,”

"No, I’m not," he said quickly. 

"You were the one who didn’t want to know my name-,"

"I never said-,"

"You said ‘ _no names_ ’-,” she said with knitted brows, amused by the strangers conviction he hadn’t mumbled that while she stroked the growing bulge on his tight dark trousers.

He closed his eyes briefly, his hand on the keys, until his eyes flashed open. “What’s your name?” he said again, this time with a sharper exhale.

"Molly."

"Sherlock," he said turning on the car engine. 

She had a feeling she was in trouble. 


	38. Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly being trapped inside a closet by their son because their bickering was getting rather tedious.

"Sweetie, please let us out-," began Molly, while he merrily rolled his eyes in the dark.

"No!" said a young voice on the other side of the door, and Sherlock heard his son stomp off into the distance, the door to the room banging shut. 

He might be known in occasion as crude, perhaps rather blunt in his ways, but he would not deign to explain to his son that it was their form of  _foreplay_ , for then he would need to explain ‘foreplay’. Having still his phone in his pocket, he quickly texted John, and knew it would take approximately twenty minutes before the man was there. 

"We have twenty minutes," he whispered into his wife’s ear, only to find her turning her head towards him, her mouth inches away from his face. 

"You do know that I’m  _actually_ cross with you right?” she said after a few seconds. 

"You’d be more convincing if you hadn’t been wearing that shirt."

"What’s wrong with my shirt?"

"Every time you want something you wear  _that_  particular shirt, and proceed to bend over like it means nothing. Our son is bound to figure it out.”

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You’re an idiot." 

"Molly I am not-," her lips smashed against his, stopping his speech. 

 


	39. Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealous Sherlock announcing his feelings

"Obviously I might have overreacted-," he said his mouth dry, while she stared at him with arms crossed in disbelief. 

"You punched someone."

"He hardly toppled over," he said rolling his eyes. 

Molly sighed, before she shook her head. “Sherlock! You knocked over a table-,”

"He was much lighter than I thought," he said with pursed lips, hoping he looked an inch guilty. 

”- Whoever flirts with me doesn’t give you the right - it’s not - even if you - were - which you aren’t - it doesn’t give you the right-,” she stopped in her words, her hands clenched to her sides. 

"If I were  _what_?” he said softly, while her eyes were on the floor. 

"Just go please? I want to celebrate the rest of my birthday alone." She walked off to the door, holding it open to him, but he did not move. 

"What if I was?" 

"What?"

"What if I was - someone in your life-,"

"Sherlock - just -,"

"Let me word it differently - what if I  _wanted_  to be someone?”

She stared at him for a few seconds. “Still wouldn’t make it alright-,” she finally said laughing slightly. 

"I know," he said smiling, his heart rejoicing the second she closed the door to her flat, watching him with a curious look in her eye. 

"You want to watch a film?"

He nodded briefly. 

"Okay," she said, and then she proceeded to put on the worst kind of romantic waffle as a punishment for his stupidity.

He did indeed feel thoroughly punished, especially when she sent him home without a kiss, though it was clear it lay ahead in the future.

And for her, he was willing to wait. 

 


	40. Just Calm

There was that silence again chewing on her insides, as she waited for him to say something, anything. She didn’t expect him to stop her or goad her or tease her or even congratulate her. No, she’d given up on those thoughts long ago, which was why they were there.

Sherlock sighed, his chest rising, as his hands were fixed in his pockets. “You’re - leaving tomorrow then?”

His brows were knitted, his eyes down-cast, and she gave a gentle smile in return, looking him fully in the face, her gaze not faltering.

Molly didn’t have trouble doing that anymore. 

"Yeah," she said with a slight shrug. 

She didn’t need to explain herself really, there was no point. The fact was she was happy,  _really_  happy. There was no need to talk about what she and Alex did. No, need to explain how they spent their mornings, afternoons or nights. No, need to tell how her husband made her feel. 

"I hope-," he began finally meeting her gaze, looking like he’d disappointed her. He’d never disappointed her, he’d done exactly like she expected. 

"I know," she said softly, taking a tentative step, until she had her arms wrapped around him, his hands unmoving, his posture rigid.

She drew back after a few seconds, before standing on her toes giving him a soft peck on the cheek. “I hope - you’ll be happy too, Sherlock Holmes.” 

And then she left, not sad, not unhappy, just calm.


	41. Fertile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHERLOCK WANTS A BABY, BUT MOLLY IS THE ONE WHO ISN’T SURE ABOUT IT.

It was a question she’d never thought she’d ever,  _ever_ be asked in her life. Certainly not when she was still nursing her coffee, trying to clear the light mental fog from waking up five in the morning. Molly gaped, which was an unremarkable reaction, her brain slowly turning over the words, but Sherlock seemed to feel the need to repeat himself.

_"You’re fertile, aren’t you?"_

Somehow she was reminded of cows, and then flowers, and fertilizer. “Umm…I suppose so?” Was she supposed to ask if he had sperm? It was too early in the morning for these kinds of questions. “Haven’t really thought about it-,”

"I think we should have a child," he blurted before she’d even finish her tiny laugh, the coffee she was drinking going down wrong, causing her to cough soundly. 

She’d obviously made the wrong choice in waking up that morning.

Clearly everything was going wrong.

Sherlock was talking about children -  _children!_  

"Why?" she said wide-eyed. 

"Obviously we’d be well-suited to maintain a child."

The word ‘maintain’ made her snort. “Well, it’s not, it’s - we’re not even-,” she began.

They weren’t even dating. 

"We can fix that quite easily."

"But - but you’re not the sort… this isn’t a case, is it?"

"No," he scoffed. "If I needed a baby I’d just borrow John’s. I  _want_  a baby, there’s a difference.” 

Molly frowned. “You’re serious, then?” she said slowly. 

"Yes," he said, before he blinked. "Oh. You don’t want children…"

She didn’t know how to respond to that, since children had never been in her plans. She had after all plans, and most of them didn’t involve popping out children no matter how sweet some of her friends little ones were. They were sweet one second, and then little terrors other moments. “I think that maybe…maybe I’m not the one you should be asking really.”

"You’re the only one that comes to mind," he said looking puzzled by this. 

"I’m the only woman you know, then?" she said with a laugh. 

"The only woman who is my friend," he said softly, smiling. 

Molly smiled back. “That’s not a good reason to have a baby, anyway.”

"Why not? We’d hardly be terrible parents."

She really felt like sending him off, the horror of imagining herself carrying a baby for nine long months, the pains of child birth, and what-not were enough to make her neither region quiver, and it was certainly not in anticipation.

"And we wouldn’t, there would be no - no need to-," he began, stumbling in his words. 

"Have sex?" she said brightly, glad to put him off-kilter. 

Sherlock furrowed his brows. 

"Sex is fun though," she added cheerfully. Not that she intended to sleep with him to have his baby. She could hardly imagine herself popping out a baby for his benefit. "But you could…adopt, you know?" she said thoughtfully. "No, need to bring anyone else in." She could see on his face that the idea did not appeal to him. 


	42. Jumper

_“_ Something wrong?” she said blinking at him, tilting the champagne glass to her lips. “I know I didn’t - dress up, but I -,”

"You look, umm - " he blinked - "well." 

Molly raised a brow. “Okay? Thanks.”

"I better-," and he more or less sprinted in the direction of John Watson, the pair of them proceeded to have a hushed discussion, while she just giggled to herself.

Considering the last Christmas party she’d had there, this was certain steps forward really, even if she did not get how her reindeer jumper had made Sherlock turn quiet. Maybe he had deduced something horrid about the previous owner? Oh, she regretted going to the charity shop, but they had the best jumpers in the end. Especially the festive ones. 

"You alright?" asked Mary who turned up at her side. 

"Yeah… I just - is something wrong with this jumper?" she said. 

Mary took a breath, narrowing her eyes at the glaring colours. “Well, it’s, you know, it’s-,”

Molly giggled. “I know it’s horrible. I love horrible Christmas jumpers.”

"Thank God," said Mary with a sigh of relief. "Because that’s probably number one of the worst I’ve seen this year."

"Thanks," said Molly with a large grin, her eyes twinkling. 

"Oh, that’s my cue," said Mary who suddenly sprang off, and Molly stared in surprise to find Sherlock back again. 

"Hello," he said with a serious expression. 

Molly pursed her lips, trying to still her smile. 

"Did someone die in this?"

"Sorry," he said looking completely taken off guard. 

"The jumper?" she whispered. "Did someone die in it?"

"No - no - no one - why - why would you think that?" he said with a crinkle between his brows. 

"You looked offended when you saw me," she said laughing. 

"I wasn’t - I - Molly - I was - I was ‘admiring’ you."

"Admiring?" she repeated gaping slightly, taking a quick sip of her champagne, not that it would help clear her head at all. 

"Yes," said Sherlock with a slight incline of his head, his eyes trailing over her jumper in a way she really hadn’t seen before. 

"Oh," she said feeling a blush rise in her cheeks, her fingers tapping against her glass. "Sherlock?"

He made a noise with his throat, looking up at her face slowly, his gaze almost nervously meeting hers. “Yes?”

"You’re going to love your present," she said with a wink, reminding him of the large soft package he’d received from her, before she walked of keen to talk to Greg to see if he was alright, as he was sat nursing a glass of whiskey.

Sherlock stared after her frowning. 

"Went well, did it?" said the voice of John.

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. “It’s a work in progress John.”

"Yeah, I see that. Get to it then -,"

"Shut up, John."


	43. Be Happy

He bowed his head, nodding silently. ”Yeah, I sort of…got that,” he said with a soft smile, his hand slowly closing around the ring she’d placed in his palm. “And you know what - it’s alright, really, it is, because I think we both - we both sort of deserve better.”

She giggled. “I’m at the top at the mo, though,” he said with a wry grin. “I might have a few pints tonight, well, a lot actually.”

"I’m so sorry, Tom," she said with a loud sniff. 

He kissed the top of her head, smiling into her hair. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly.” She could see he was sad, and it wasn’t before he had walked off that she was reminded of someone who’d done the exact same thing. It was then she fished out her phone, staring at it perplexed, as she bit worryingly into her lip.  _He_  had already left ages ago, and had most likely gone to Baker Street, but she had to check. 

_Where are you? x M_

_Yours - S_

 

She blinked. Of all the things she thought, she didn’t think he’d be at her place after John and Mary’s wedding. She’d originally come with Tom after all. 

_How did you know? x M_

Even Sherlock seemed to know her engagement had ended before she had even bloody ended it. 

_You had that face - S_

_What face? I don’t have a face - x M_

_Yes, you do. - S_

_I suggest not drinking more tonight, and getting back to your flat - S_

_Only if the bed’s mine tonight - x M_

_Deal - S_


	44. Bees

He stood with pursed lips, looking thoughtful, and she looked up from her work curiously. “Sherlock, something wrong?”

"No," he said softly. A beat passed. "Do you like bees?"

"Bees?" she said with raised brows. "Umm, sure, they’re alright?"

"Good," he said with a slight nod. "Good."

Sherlock began to walk away, but then he swiftly turned around. “There is this nice cottage in Sussex.” 

"And?" she said a bit confused and amused. 

"It’s nice…it has - bees."

"And I should - umm - live there?" she said giggling slightly. 

"Yes."

"What?" she said surprised. 

"With me of course," he added in a low voice, before he quickly said - "I should go."

"Sherlock," she said and he stopped by the door again. 

"Molly  _Holmes_  - suits you,” he said flashing her a quick smile, before walking off. Molly blinked to herself for a few seconds, completely bewildered.


	45. Listen

“ _Maybe it’s just my type.”_  He’d heard her, of course he’d heard her, but he walked on instead, taking one foot in front of the other, before he’d gotten away from it, from her. He could have gone back, he heard her slow step – her  _oscillation_  on the pavement – there’s the engagement to consider – the ring so evidently perched on her finger  - claiming a spot – claiming her. It’s not jaunty little jabs in the lab anymore or terribly shoddy brews of coffee or him saying something he’ll regret.

No, somehow he knows with time those things will diminish. They’ll be tiny moments he’ll keep to himself pretending that maybe he’s another man, maybe he’s the man who runs back and kisses her fully on the lips, catching her sighs with his mouth, but he can’t, he won’t. He cannot destroy her happiness, yet, why did she come? Why did she – why does he – ‘maybe it’s just my type’ he ponders, relishing the words and keeping them to himself like he never heard her say it. 


	46. Correction

_**I accidentally sent an image of my clock to my brother. I think I am sufficiently punished - SH** _

**[** _one minute later_ **]**

_**Your clock? - Molly** _

**[** _three seconds later_ **]**

_**OH MY GOD - Molly** _

_**If only images had autocorrect - SH** _


	47. This Weeks Survey

The search bar was like a barren wasteland, whatever key he’d strike would further hasten to make him press the backspace when he could. Had it been  _okay?_  No. Okay was a terrible word. Okay was an affirmation. Okay was not good. It hadn’t been good. No. It had been - - - tolerable. No,  _tolerable_  was spending Christmas with his family entrenched in a sort of happy family dynamic with his older brother ogling the cakes and crumpets, crumbs already on his front. 

So… 

Somehow two words came spilling out in the hideous standard font glaring at him from the laptop’s screen -  ** _bad sex._**  He suddenly heard the familiar heels of Mrs Hudson and slammed his laptop shut. Sherlock already knew the myriad of appalling website suggestions that would appear, including the advertisements that were certainly lewd and tacky.  ** _How to please your lover?_**  He cringed at the sheer idea - they weren’t even lovers - it had been one time - ‘and a half’. The door to 221b banged open and he immediately put on a less disgruntled expression when Mrs Hudson walked in - “Didn’t you hear the phone?” she said tutting smelling of that infernal perfume of hers that practically made his furniture moan.

“…No,” he said scrunching up his nose.

“Oh, well, it was only-,” Don’t be her. Don’t. Be. Her. “ - John - he’s popping round in an hour with Isabelle.”

“Ah,” he said with a suddenly genuine smile.

 

* * *

 

“So - you and Molly had dinner last night-,” said John who was bouncing his babbling daughter on his lap, her exclamations of indecipherable delight often. “ - How did it go?” He’d been tangoing around the subject for approximately one hour. Going from the usual small talk with Mrs Hudson - to asking him if there was anything interesting going on, until he finally landed on the topic that had him appear there in the first place.

“Fine,” he said, hands steepled by his lips.

It had been fine. Instead of a cadaver between them, they had food. Not too shabby and not too posh. The in-between that he knew Molly wouldn’t find too unpleasant or forced. They’d been natural, even normal from a distance, despite discussing the various fungi’s a recent body she’d gotten in had.

“And - are you going to dinner again then?” said his ex-flatmate, eyes shifty - and - - -

“Mary’s with Molly isn’t she?” he said, turning his gaze above John’s head.

John sighed. “Yeah, but-,”

“They’re just having a little  _chat_  then, I suppose, and you thought you’d come round here to find the other source of information?” 

“So - that - - bad?”

Sherlock met John’s eyes briefly, letting them flicker off to the side, while he shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Not my choice of words, no, but-,” 

“It’s not always going to go right the first time you know.”

He blinked, brows furrowed, as he stared at his friend who was famed for avoiding sensitive topics of these kind. John might be congratulating himself constantly for being the  _emotional_ and romantic of the pair, but he never really ‘shared’. This was why they were friends to begin with.

“How so?”

“Sometimes you know… It’s because people are nervous, and you’d have to be nervous, of course. It’s been a long time coming for you this, and it’s  _real_ , so, it’s not surprising that there’s an awkward start.”

“Right…”

“Hell, I did have a problem with Mary the first time-,”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this. “ - - You’re not talking about sex are you?” he said which caused the man opposite him to widen his eyes, besides shield his baby’s ears, as if Isabella could comprehend half of the things going on besides being currently enthralled by a swirl of dust in the air of the room.

“ - No - what - no - what - did you two have-,” John made a face, which Sherlock assumed meant sex in some way or the other.

“Yes,” he sighed. “And I can only assume she’s dishing out most of the information to Mary who’ll be condescending enough to send me some upbeat text in an hour or so about not  _giving up.”_

“You’re giving up?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Of course I’m not giving up!”

John chuckled. “Molly isn’t really the type who talks.” 

“What?” 

“She didn’t tell Mary about the date to begin with - Mary only found it because-,” 

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut - - ah - - good - - - Apparently Molly _can_  keep her mouth shut under pressure, shouldn’t really be too surprising after all-,” 

John pursed his lips. “I’m going to avoid reading - - too much into what you just said there-,” 

“What I - oh - about keeping her mouth -  _oh-_ is that good then?”

“We’re not talking about this in front of Isabella,” said John with gritted teeth.

“I’ll take that as yes.” 

John sighed, his curiousity winning him over. “When are you going to meet Molly then?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to her since you-,”

“Left? No.” 

“Wait a minu- you just left?” said John gaping.

“I was supposed to stay?” he said baffled.

At this John got to his feet and dropped Isabella with Sherlock who tilted his mouth upwards slightly in surprise, while John got the laptop. “Right, let’s - oh - I see you’ve tried - I can’t believe you didn’t look up  _before_  you met her-,” 

“Well - I didn’t think that would happen!” said Sherlock.

John laughed sitting down with the laptop now. “Good to know you’re utterly clueless then, and not just a little - - so - she asked you up, and you thought alright?” 

“She asked me if I wanted coffee.”

“Sounds about right,” said John still laughing to his annoyance. “What else?”

Sherlock gave him a furtive stare. 

“Okay,” said John slowly looking a bit thoughtful. “Did you tell her that you haven’t really-,” he made a gesture with his hand. 

“Had sex?” he said bluntly making his friend roll his eyes.

Isabella made a much larger noise this time, chubby fingers curling around Sherlock’s much larger hands.

“ _Fine_  - did you?” 

“… I may have-,” 

“You didn’t tell her?” said John who rubbed a hand over his face. 

“ - - - - No.”

* * *

She’d never felt more like a teenager, the sort of - hide your body underneath the covers teenager terrified that if one inch of her skin was visible he’d physically withdraw and she’d be saddled with complexes. She was never nervous before sex. Never. She knew sex. Sex was the one thing she’d felt terribly certain of. It  _was_ her thing, but it had all felt off. 

It had felt like she wasn’t even in her body. 

She was Molly Hooper observing it all from the distance and critiquing. ‘ _You’re moaning too loud. It’s not believable moaning.”_ She had had a bloody monologue! It wasn’t bad… Well, it hadn’t been good. Neither had it been fine. It had been - - sex with Sherlock? She’d imagined sex with Sherlock before. It had always seemed steamier and sort of ravaging. The synonyms usually found in a clandestine book with a swoony female on the cover, but in the end it had all felt very,  _staged._  

Like a third person had been in the room and told them how they should do it - “A bit to the right please - oh and put your hand on her breast - think she’ll like that.” That sort of staged. It certainly didn’t help that instead of talking they had both lay on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling for an hour. 

Or it felt like an hour. Him leaving had been a blessing, and she’d spent the rest of her evening tidying up her flat - since hovering underneath her bed had become priority. It hadn’t been good, but she wasn’t about to share that with Mary Watson who had clearly tried using all her past-CIA tactics to weasel it out of her (minus actual torture). 

She didn’t feel like over sharing, even if she couldn’t think of anything else. How would life be with him now? Would they be normal? Or would they pretend like nothing until they could finally speak more than one sentence in each other’s company - - 

“We _need_  to do it again-,” Molly blinked from standing in the lab, and saw Sherlock all of a sudden before her slightly out of breath.

“Hmm?” she said her cheeks colouring at such a speed, she almost felt the blood rush to her head. “Wha-,”

“ _Sex._  We need to do the sex again,” he said looking exasperated.

She raised her brows. “We do? Umm - don’t know if now’s the time-,” she said adding the awkward smile to the various students around her, some of them looking absolutely unaffected by the outburst, and others looking quizzical - - “I’m with a group of students?” 

 

* * *

 

“We are going to approach it scientifically,” he said handing her a paper.

“Is this - is this a survey?” she said staring. 

“I thought it would be good if we both filled out what we liked or didn’t like during our first attempt and we’ll see what we can work on during our next.” 

“Umm…”


	48. A bit hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bflatminorchord asked me if i could do number 47 meeting at a festival

It was stifling, the sort of humid nightmare that made every piece of clothing cling onto ones skin, as the sun burnt more than it pleased. She turned red of course, despite having smeared on lots of sun-factor, but she wasn’t suffering completely. Her high-waisted shorts and frozen non-alcoholic strawberry daiquiri really helped on her mood, but she was a bit caught off guard by the sight of a man wandering around in a dark long coat - sporting a pair of wellingtons. Weird things at festival - like people in onesies or costumes were normal  _\- this_  was just mad. Molly wasn’t the only one staring and the man went towards the booth she stood by clearly in need of a drink, making wild silent gestures with his hands. 

"Aren’t you a bit hot?" she said with raised brows. 

He turned to look at her with furrowed brows, his hair clinging to his forehead. People were advised to have water bottles on them at all times, there were people at the emergency tent being helped because they were dehydrated, but this man was apparently pretending like it was still winter. 

Instead of answering her he took his drink - threw the straw out and more or less gulped down the frozen contents, which prompted him to make a rather striking grimace. “Oh - brain freeze?” she said almost laughing at him, while he just continued making the face. “Put your tongue on the roof of your mouth.”

He blinked at her, but his expression suddenly stopped.

"…You should say thank you," she quipped grinning at him. "And you should really take off your coat, it’s too hot." 

"Thank you?" he said looking confused while removing his coat, blinking at her for a couple of seconds in his dark shirt and trousers which most likely sucked in the heat. "Are you a doctor?"

"Pathologist?" she said glad to see him nod in understanding. 

"Hmm. I see - - I’m working on a case-,"

"You’re police?" she said staring at his clothes, and sort of understanding why he seemed utterly out of his element. Police tended to be absolutely rubbish at dressing for the occasion. 

"No-," he said slowly. "Would you mind looking at a body for me?"

That’s not exactly what she thought she’d be doing when she decided to go see _The Killers_ , which in retrospect was quite ironic. However, she also didn’t know that the man who she’d later know by the name of Sherlock Holmes counted it as their first date. 


	49. His Own Special Way

"Does he come round often then?" said Greg leaning against the counter, while Molly scuttled around the lab looking at him with mild surprise. She’d handed him the blood samples he needed for the Richardsen case, but he wasn’t budging despite the files rolled up in his hand (typical Greg - manhandling her paperwork, then again he probably didn’t personally go through it, as she could easily imagine Sally doing the _dirty work_ ). 

"Yeah. Why?" she said stopping in her track, still carrying around the bowl with her spleen, or well, not  _her_  spleen. 

"No. No. Just wondering-,"

"Okay," she said with a raised brow, but she continued her tidying without much thought, putting away the bowl on the counter. 

"It’s just, you know, it almost seems like he’s in love with you."

The way it was said was so casual, at first she’d just nodded for a few seconds in silence smiling, before everything froze. 

“ _What?”_ she said glad the bowl wasn’t in her arms anymore, as it would surely be on the floor, and her work would be a bit hard to salvage. Or at least Mrs Fitzwilliams spleen would be lost to the greenish floors. “What do you mean he’s in love with me-,” it came out less dignified and more squeaky-voiced than she wanted. 

"Oh - would you look at the-," he began, hurriedly looking at his wristwatch, which she knew was a load of piss. 

"Greg!" she snapped heatedly. 

He blanched, holding his hands up. “Okay, just - - don’t slap me,” he said with a laugh. “I know how you dealt with Sherlock after all.” 

She frowned at him. 

”..Sorry - okay, so, a couple of days ago - after I’d come round just to say hello to you - I was cornered,” he said. 

"Cornered?"

"By Sherlock - who was a bit unhappy about the state of things - kept going on about how illogical it would be if  _we_  got together, despite my divorce coming through, as I am technically a  _commitment phobic_ , and you need someone who’s secure for once.”

"He - he said that?"

"Yes, actual words said by Sherlock bloody Holmes - and - I’m not an idiot - whatever he says - so I’m wondering is something actually going on between you two?"

"Umm, no, I don’t think-,"

The door to the lab banged open - a blur of darkness stormed inside.

“ _Lestrade_ ,” said Sherlock, nose up, expression dour. “You’re wasting quite a lot of time on delivering blood samples, aren’t you?”

Greg raised a brow at her with a knowing look on his face. “Yeah - I was just on my way out, actually,” he said grinning slightly, while she just gaped at Sherlock who looked as if he was contemplating drilling a hole through Greg’s chest. “See you later, Molly,” said the DI with a wave of his hand. 

She was then left with a consulting detective who looked less on the verge of murder all of a sudden. “Interesting spleen?” he said with a mild look of curiosity, as she just continued gaping at him. 

Sherlock had managed to remove his coat and scarf - even slipped on a pair of plastic gloves - clearly about to dig into her current project - the spleen - when she finally managed to say. “Sorry - what was that?”

"Hmm?" he said spleen in his hand. "Well, depending on the weight it could be-,"

"No - I’m not - not -  _that_ \- I mean - why  - - -  _are you jealous_?”

"Jealous?" he said with furrowed brows. "…Well from time to time I do find myself jealous, but you’ll always be better than me when it comes to your work."He then returned his focus to the bowl. 

Now she  _was_  really confused. “No - I - thanks…? But I mean if you thought that Greg and I were dating?” 

"But you’re not," he said easily. 

"I know we’re not."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

Molly sighed, rolling her eyes with a laugh. She was being mad. Greg was obviously going off on some wild chase, as usual. There was a reason Sherlock helped the man after all, besides his own amusement. “Oh - - sorry, I must really be tired. I listened to Greg about - oh - never mind.”

"About what?" he murmured.

"He said you were in love with me," she said with a shrug. 

"And?"

She stared. “And?” she repeated. “That’s - that’s all you’re going to say?”

"Was I supposed to say anything else?" he said with slightly narrowed eyes. 

" - - I don’t know - how about no?"

"That would be pointless, Molly."

She must be hearing wrong, she had to be hearing wrong, or thinking of it in the wrong way. Sherlock didn’t mean  _love_  love. Maybe he did love her. He probably did, but it was  _his way._ "Oh, well… that’s nice."

"I like to think so, so,  _spleen_?”

It took her almost thirty-four ‘not-dates’ to realize that he did mean it, in his very own way, the only way he could really. 


	50. Final Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melina92 asked me for number 12: editor/writer

“- Not that I condemn what you’re writing about, of course, though it’s a rather  _dated_ concept.” She raised her brows, and understood all of a sudden why she’d been pre-warned by her agent about her new editor Sherlock Holmes. Not that she hadn’t already become accustomed to his odd quirks and humour, but, the way he laid the final blow about her book certainly diminished the warmer feelings she’d been having for him.

He was the best in the business, which was another way of saying ‘brutally honest’, but for most part he’d been more brutal about her writing today than actually elevating her work. “Dated?” she said leaning on her hand, as he flipped through the various pages, and she saw the red ink splattered across the text. There seemed to be a lot of flaws in her text,  _quite a lot,_  especially as this was the fifteenth time they met,and he’d been rather encouraging while sometimes rather silent the other times. It was an odd change really, which made her purse her lips albeit more than she should. “ _Love_?” she added when he kept tossing through the pages without answering her. 

Sherlock looked up all a sudden, hand smoothing down the top of the script. “…It’s not that I don’t believe that someone might fall in love with someone at first sight - -  _I don’t_ \- - but-,” he looked extraordinarily irritated for some reason. 

Officially it was supposed to be their last meeting, and he’d been rather odder than usual throughout it, unable to even meet her eyes, his blue eyes narrowed off to some remote distance. He wasn’t his usual level headed self at all, which really made her confused. It almost seemed like he was - stalling -  _oh_  - and she smiled to herself, as he railed off, though most of it was just noise, and words, without rhyme or proper reason. Their last meeting… Days before the book was done. Suddenly he seemed to hate the pages, the plot and the book itself. 

“Would you like to have a coffee?” she said without thought.

Whatever passionate speech he going on about was cut short, and he looked very confused, besides helpless. “If you’d like?” she said when he just gaped at her.

He snapped his mouth shut and proceeded to clear his throat rather soundly. “You mean… coffee now,  _or_?”

“As in a date,” she said with a smile. “Or… is my book really that terrible?”

His eyes flickered downwards with a laugh. “No - no - it isn’t…”

 


	51. Drunk Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meeting at a party drunk au/unilock

Her knees smarted; she was bound to get bruises on both her kneecaps from the way she kept falling when she went  _up_  the steps, which was probably why Meena pushed her into her parent’s bedroom to begin with.

No more pink drinks in sight. 

She didn’t argue, but she was unfortunately still very much awake, restlessly turning around in the bed, while she could hear the beat from the music a floor below. When Molly finally forced her eyes shut, she was surprised to hear the door to the bedroom creak open, followed by a grunt and a - “Get in there, for God’s sake-,” a voice said or rather hissed.

“ _No_.”

“Sherlock, come on - you need to lie down-,”

“I can handle my drink-,” was followed by a large thumping sound, and from what she could see with the brief glimpse of the hallway light - whoever had spoken was on the floor. 

“Right… Come on - the girl said it was alright, you’ll be sharing a bed with someone - should be fine - just don’t do anything.”

“Why would _I_ do anything?” the voice slurred in return.

“…You’re right - oh umm sorry-,” the bright bedroom light flickered on, and Molly squinted at the pair of them - she recognised the one by the door called John who’d been talking to everyone at the party, including her friend Mary (especially her), while the other lankier person - Sherlock - had kept to himself most of the night, and also, offended her at some point (“Could you at least try to talk to someone?” “No.” “What about her?” “Her? No. There’s a reason nobody’s talking to her John. _Boring_.”)  _He_  was of course the one who was going to share a bed with her - “ - you awake? You don’t mind Sherlock kipping in with you?”

She blinked. “Aren’t any other beds available?” she asked which prompted a narrow stare from her potential bed-partner; however, it was directed at John, not her. 

John immediately blushed and coughed. “Umm,  _well_ , most of them are sort of taken, and the music is too loud right now to make it possible for him to sleep on the sofa downstairs, at least not, comfortably.” Which meant that Meena and the lot had all paired up, and Sherlock had been banished from distracting them from their snogging, which meant  _she_  would be the one handling him. She knew the look on John’s face ‘ _please-please-please’,_ but with an uneasy smile.

“…Okay,” she said reluctantly, shifting onto the left side of the bed and hoping they’d manage to share the one thick duvet.

“Brilliant,” said John grinning, though soon directing a rather pointed look at his friend. “Now… sleep it off will you?” The bedroom door snapped shut after that - so did the lights - and silence fell over the pair, except when the bed squeaked soundly as Sherlock sat down on the right side.

Molly sighed and decided she wouldn’t be breaking the silence. What was she going to say?  _Well_ … She did want to say a lot in return for him being such a massive git. ‘ _Boring!_ ’ He hadn’t exactly impressed her with being remotely interesting when he first appeared, though it was clear by the way girls kept turning on their heel after he’d spoken a few words to them - that he wasn’t much to talk to - rude and obnoxious was the general consensus.

No, it would be a waste of energy. She would think of much pleasanter things - - and fall asleep instead.

“I can hear you breathing,” the voice besides her moaned out after a minute of two where she tried thinking of pleasant things (which obviously hadn’t worked, since every thought twisted into unearthly irritated ones).

“If I wasn’t - I’d be dead,” she whispered in return. 

He laughed, which was upsetting.

She wasn’t supposed to make the rude one laugh, she was supposed to scorn him, and possibly send him back to the living room. “Yes. That  _would_  be a problem.”

“…You don’t usually share a bed with anyone, do you?” 

“Nope.”

“It requires keeping your mouth shut, at some point, you know,” she said sniffing soundly.

“I was just about to point out that it was obvious that neither of us were sleeping-,” 

“You’re not suggesting us  _sleeping_  together, are you?”

“Aren’t we sleeping together already?”

She laughed, rather relieved. “I meant  _sex_ , actually.”

“I don’t want to have sex.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Ah, you thought I was asking?”

“…Yes?” 

“No, I was wondering if Iwas the reason you were breathing so hard.” 

“That sentence got away from you…”

“How - oh - I get it -  _sex_  again. Why do people care so much about that anyway? Everyone downstairs are-,” he made a disgruntled noise, and she almost giggled, though she was still too annoyed with him to let him entirely off, so no giggling.

“You were rude,” she said all of a sudden, which wasn’t what she was supposed to say, but her mouth made a shot in the dark. 

“I’m always rude.” 

“Why? You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of people?”

“No, people are boring.” 

“So, I’ve heard…” she said trying not to sigh too loudly.

“Everyone’s boring.” 

“Thanks.”

“Ah - you’re upset about  _that_ then? It wasn’t about you. John’s constantly trying to rope me into sexual intercourse with women, as if he thinks that’ll make me more _normal._ ” 

“Oh, what doesn’t make you normal?”

“What makes  _you_  normal?” 

“Umm, I don’t know?” 

“Perhaps it’s that hand-knitted jumper of yours with cats or your worn down trainers that you got second-hand-,” he began trailing off. 

“…How come you remember what I’m wearing?” she said with raised brows. 

“I didn’t remember.  _I saw._  Details. They tell things about people-,” 

“And my clothes say I’m normal?”

“Or - trying to be.” 

She laughed. 

“So that’s it, isn’t it? It’s social camouflage,” he said sounding rather happy all of a sudden.

“I couldn’t go around naked, wouldn’t be really good camouflage.” 

He whispered, “No, I suppose you couldn’t do that.” 

“Why did you suddenly start to whisper?” she said a bit louder than before. “You’re not doing a sex voice?”

“A sex voice? I have a sex voice?”

“Everyone has a sex voice. It’s that husky sort of voice one does once in a while - and I really should shut up-,”

“How much have you had to drink?” he asked after a minute.

“…A bit too much.”

“Ah, well, then.” 

“What?” 

“I was just about to suggest sex.”

“Actual sex this time?”

“Yes?” 

“I don’t even know you.”

“Nobody seems to know each other down stairs, but they’re n throws to become familiar with each other, if the volume of the music is anything to go by.” 

“I don’t have sex with strangers.”

“No, you only share a bed with them apparently.”

“Is that supposed to convince me?” she said with a crinkle between her brows. 

“ - - No - - I don’t know why I said that. Honestly - I don’t know why I’m still talking.”

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“It’s rather why I’m here, but umm - what’s your name again?” 

“We got introduced, you know.” 

“Are you going to act all offended now?” 

“Oh my God,” she bit out. “ _Go to sleep.”_

“…It was something to do with _M_ , wasn’t it?” and she could literally feel his breath against her neck, though she didn’t try to think much of it, despite the fact that he was rather close, closer than he should be, but somehow, she wasn’t as bothered as she should be. Technically she should be very bothered that some bloke was breathing down her neck - a complete stranger -

“Close enough,” she muttered with eyes shut, intent on sleeping now and possibly forever, and ignoring her witless bed partner.

“Molly? Yes - Molly!” he cried out making her snap open her eyes again in half-alarm. 

“ _What?”_  she threw back.

“Someone passed the door, might as well give them something to talk about.”

“Did you just make pretend-sex-noises?”

“Did it sound remotely accurate?”

“…Umm, I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, you don’t know either? Hmm.”

“Yes, I suppose the real-sex might become a bit harder to come by when we-,”  _oh_   

“Did you intend to make a sentence with that much innuendo?” he said after a minute, and he began to laugh.

Molly tried very hard not to, but a giggle slipped out despite herself. “I didn’t mean to,” she said in between her laughter.

“No, I suppose you didn’t, Molly Hooper,” he said, which made her laughter stop short all of a sudden.

“You remember my full name?”

“You were the only one who bothered giving your last name. Made it difficult to forget.”

“Oh,  _right,_ sorry.” 

“Why are you apologizing? Remembering a name for once might actually make me a better person… though - doubtful” 

She snorted. “You almost make yourself sound not-human.” 

“I don’t often feel like one.” 

“Why not?”

“First of all, I don’t even want to be here. Secondly, the only moment I’ve remotely had a pleasant time would be -  _now_.”

“And thirdly?”

“Do I need one?”

“I suppose not,” she said with a smile. “…Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“Being nice. 

“Don’t tell anyone… They might think it’s a trend.”

Molly didn’t know when she fell asleep really, only that the bedroom door opened at some stage, and she woke up lifting her head from Sherlock’s chest to find Meena winking at her from the door mouthing ‘ _breakfast_ ’. Somehow she’d wound up in his arms, though she didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest, and was greeted by his rather dour expression when she poked him into waking up. “No,” he mumbled, pulling her down on the bed, though he quickly stiffened when he realized what he’d done. “ _Oh.”_

“It’s alright,” she said when he disentangled. “It must have happened while we slept.” 

“…Yes, I suppose -,” he began, while she got to her feet uneasily -  - “Do you want to forget it?” 

She turned to look at him gaping slightly, until she bluntly said, “No.”

“Breakfast?” he said with a smile getting to his feet, giving her a quick kiss on her forehead.

Molly stared at him rather bewildered, but she smiled in return anyway. “Yes, breakfast.”

 


	52. I just met you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likingthistoomuch asked me to do a celebrity/fan au

It’s not like she can’t taste the alcohol in his mouth, but it’s every other flavour that she can’t resist, besides the way he seems to linger by her swollen lips, drawing for breath like a dying man. She can practically taste the air between them, cold and real, the frost in her breath, besides the taste of him. Molly can scarcely breathe or think or understand how this happened. 

Her plan was merrily to say a quick  _hello_ , then a thank you and a simple goodbye, like any other mere mortal, but somehow, his eyes had lingered, and he asked her to sit down by the table he occupied alone.

Every skill he was known to have, he did have - blue sharp eyes seeing the ink tiny splatter of ink by her wrist from filling in those forms - his fingertips were dragging along the pale expanse of her wrist - “You’re nervous,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, as he focused on the thin blue veins of hers. “Pulse…Elevated.”

And he knew where she got her dark blue silk dress from, his hand lingering on the thick strap, smoothing it over with a smile, his face brushing against the side of hers, large warm hand sliding down her back. “…I don’t scare you, do I?” he murmured as he drew back, his soft lips briefly brushing against hers, and she leaned forward out of pure instinct, her body betraying her.

He had smiled then, eyes glinting as they danced across her body, flitting over her with possessiveness she knew not a man could own for a stranger. She’d only read about him in the paper, and knew his reputation - ‘ _seven times a night’_ , from the way she sat on his lap in the taxi, she rather felt it was true from how he felt through mere fabric.

There was urgency in every movement from the moment they left the taxi, and he guided her inside, but the very second the doors smacked shut, time seemed to slow. He paused by the shut door, staring and lingering, while she panted, eyes wide and wondering.

_Sherlock Holmes._  Consulting Detective stayed put, as she stared, chest heaving - “Aren’t - aren’t you going to-,”

He smiled.

“What do you want me to do?” he said raising a brow. “Have you here - across the carpet -  _or -_ in my bedroom, trembling and begging until your voice is hoarse?” 

“…Both?” she said moving towards him.

 


	53. New Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potterlock au

Today Mrs Hudson was thankfully making less of a racket when she vanquished and cleaned his assorted items that cluttered the flat. Whenever she exclaimed that she was his landlady he would compliment her on her charm-work, which was rather thorough than his own, or so he said. For once he wasn’t woken up early, and so it should be, it was the holidays after all. The sheer idea that he’d have to do anything that had to do with any of his pupils bored him, but luckily he could postpone the tedious work until tomorrow (he needed more red ink before that time of course).

Perhaps he didn’t even need to leave the bed today.

His wand was nearby and he could magic himself some good enough coffee. Except the sound of a familiar peck on glass made him reluctantly crack open an eye. Athena was by the window, her black feathers bristling against the windowpane, as she carried a copy of  _the Daily Prophet_ with some sense of urgency. She’d never bothered him with the paper before, and knew not to wake him, if it wasn’t the very necessity.

Perhaps…something interesting had happened, though Lestrade hadn’t exactly flooed in followed by his hapless staff of auror’s.

It had to something else.

Immediately he got to his feet holding onto his sheet, and opened the window at which his owl flew in shaking her wings importantly, clearly offended by the onslaught of snow that was happening in the less than friendly January weather. The paper had already been read from the crumpled look of it, and there was a large stain of coffee - “You took this from John?” he said and his owl hooted in response, flying off to her gilded cage to have a drink. Sometimes he was surprised how much of himself, his owl took after, especially in forms of mischief.

However, he could hardly read the front as the coffee had obscured it, and even the people in the picture were cowering, trying to avoid the liquids at large. “Hmm.” Something official by the look of it - a few important words - Ministry decrees - new law -  _new law?_  Sherlock was just about to call for Mrs Hudson when he heard the familiar sound of someone using his floo. 

There were only a select few people who dared do that (and were allowed), and the light padding of feet made him aware that it could only by his colleague - the transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts - Molly Hooper, though usually  _he_  was the one who stormed in at her place, not the other way around.

“Sherlock!  - - Are you still in bed? Have you-,” the door to his bedroom flew open and in she strode with her lavender robes, cheeks flaming red. “ - - Oh - you haven’t read it?” she said with a whine, as he raised his brows in return. 

Never had she seen him this underdressed, but she didn’t seem too bothered. Nor did she seem to care that the paper could be easily fixed with a spell, as he’d been too groggy to rectify it right there and then.

“You remember my dissertation?” she said wide-eyed tugging the paper out of his hand, while she fished out her wand from her robes - “My thesis that I thought  _no one_ read? Well, except you and possibly Mary. The thesis about the possible shortage of Wizards in 2025?” He stared as she prodded the paper with her wand turning it dry - the man who was in the photograph straightened up his back and gave a toothy smile - “ _Minister is celebrated for new marriage law to stop plummeting Wizarding numbers.”_   

“…Apparently the minster thought it was a good read,” she said with a sigh, and he suddenly saw the blisters on her hand, which she shrugged at - “…I got lots of letters today - - some single witches weren’t very happy.”

* * *

 

Molly emptied her glass without much thought, and enjoyed the burn in her throat from the firewhiskey.  _Merlin’s beard!_ She had thought it was a crude joke, though the way owls kept dropping off letters - some of which burst open filled with curses from single witches and wizards who were non-too happy about the current circumstance. Every witch below the age of 35 were required to marry, and every wizard under 65.

Despite being collectively ahead of the Muggles, there were several occasions when the Wizarding community showed its rather antiquated views with such a flourish that she almost felt sick to her stomach. Her friend and colleague might not realize her intent in appearing in his home, though she could see every time his eyes turned to her, how his brows seemed to deepen in their furrow, and she knew he perhaps understood her sudden appearance, or, the git was using Occlumency. Molly had very little to hide at this point, and relished him understanding her thoughts at this very point. “…And you are _here_  because-,” he began, eyes narrowing, as he paced thankfully now in his black robes, carrying a glass in his hand which amber contents sloshed about -

“Yes? …If you don’t mind?” she said biting her lip.  

“Getting married?” he sounded out, and she felt as if all the bricks of Diagon Alley had barrelled through her stomach, though the Ministry seemed inclined to believe they had every right to  _force_ her to bear a child into the world, as if her uterus was very much Ministry Property, but she hoped to at least have made one choice herself. “ _Us_?”

Pursing her lips, she tried not to feel the sting of his words, as it was merrily a suggestion, yet she knew, she did not have many other eligible friends who she could ever consider for such a  _plot_. There were options that were readily available to any single Witch or Wizard where they’d be paired off in something that sounded like Wizarding-Bingo to her, more than anything. “I could ask someone else,” she began more nervously than before, glad to feel the contents of her glass refill themselves, as Sherlock made a brief gesture of his hand.

“No,” he said rather quickly.

She almost laughed, as he’d always been revolted by her taste in Wizards, or on occasion the oblivious Muggle fiancé.

“Anderson could-,”

“ _Anderson_!” he spat, nostrils practically flaring, as he rifled his hands through his dark curls. “No - no - no! …. Of course I’ll do it!”

Molly stared.

In some ways she had wished for him to refuse her, to send her off packing, as it were, since the look of passionate alarm in his blue eyes only reminded her of whom she’d once been hopelessly in love with. All those years mooning over  _Sherlock Holmes_  - sending him Valentine cards and being all in all rather ridiculous, but then again, she had been much younger.

Unfortunately she was still  _young_  and under thirty-five.

“Really?” she said when the news finally sunk in.

“Yes, of course,” he said like it was obvious, his expression close to looking insulted. “We work together already - we’re friends - it’s  _logical_  that we’re married-,” he stopped talking, staring into the still full glass in his hand with a bewildered expression on his face.

He looked rather lost, as lost as she felt.  

It felt absolutely earth-shattering to hear him say such a thing, especially when he’d condemned the whole affair, and made quite a fuss about remaining a bachelor until he was well-up in his one-hundreds, or so John Watson kept saying, though Sherlock himself had never been particularly vocal, just occasionally dismissive.

Here he was agreeing to the whole business without much consideration or thought, though she suspected he could be paired up much worse. There were enough of young witches who admired him for his fame, though hardly anyone knew him personally, as many were frequently disappointed the second he began sending them off with a roll of his eyes.

“Marriage isn’t the same as me borrowing potion ingredients, Sherlock,” she said with a laugh that quickly died out when another thought much more harrowing than marriage breached the corner of her mind. “And - - we might have a baby.”

He finally drank his firewhiskey in one gulp. 

* * *

 

 _“There should be a way to bend the rules-,”_  and she knew he’d try, especially when his own brother Mycroft was in some high position in the Ministry, though apparently  _he_ had bended the rules - - “Of course Mycroft found the one loophole, which requires Veritaserum as confirmation of ones sexuality.” Instead of the anger she’d hoped to find in the Daily Prophet - they were promoting ‘happy’ marriages and long-enduring relationships by even having a long interview with some who’s parents had been roped into a similar quest when such a law had been in place.

No one seemed to be publically enraged by the Minister’s horrid attempts at medieval matchmaking, and luckily she did not get any more Howlers, though, instead she got delighted letters from Witches whose boyfriends had spent long dancing around the subject of marriage. Besides those letters, she did receive letters of proposals herself, but she ignored those, considering herself  _with_  Sherlock, despite his plot to stop the whole thing. If he did stop it from happening she would be elated, though unfortunately it did not seem like anyone would come to his aid on this very subject.

John was too amused to help and was congratulating him prematurely on the magical babies she and him would have, despite the possible trauma their children would endure with such a father.

The  _deadline_  for the pair of them sending their ‘confirmation’ was the twentieth of January. She had yet to mention it, as she didn’t know how he’d handle that on top of trying to destroy the newly established law. Truthfully she was anxious whether or not he really did want to marry her, though then again, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to marry him. There were always others, and she knew, he had had his fair share of lovers, though few, any of those unfamiliar witches could be better suited for such a pursuit.

_The rest of their lives…_

It was quite the promise.

One to be taken soberly and without judgement, but she knew when the 20th began to close in upon them both,  _he_  was her only possible choice. She could see no one else in her life. Truly there was no other man, no other figure who dominated in such a way, or who she in turn preoccupied. But despite these rather hopeful thoughts she still did not ask him about the deadline, for if she didn’t, she would receive a  _random_ wizard the Ministry had picked. She had heard less and less from Sherlock these days, perhaps, he’d been making an escape, though she couldn’t conceivably see him not flat-out denying her request to begin with if he really wanted to. It was a great relief that the Headmaster was allowing her some time off, as the ramifications of the new law had postponed the start of the year for some time. 

 

Everyone was in panic, after all.

 

Tick. 

 

_Tock._

 

Molly barely had time to react when out of the emerald green flames Sherlock emerged holding a piece of parchment with his eyebrows knitted severely. Immediately a quill was magicked into her hand and he said - “Signature?”

She wrote her loopy signature and the parchment rolled up, before he sent it off quickly through the floo with his brother as an intermediate. Sherlock proceeded to clear his throat after that - a minute or two passing in awkward silence, neither of which knew what to say, or do.

There were rules - procedures - and the sheer weight of them ran down upon her - upon him, or so his face told her, the sombre air surrounding it couldn’t have been more obvious.

 “We’ll get married -  _next_  week, then?” he said as casually as he could after another bout of clearing his throat, which appeared to be once more severely scratchy.

She gave a nod still sitting in her soft dark pink settee, and then, once more the green flames rose in her fireplace, his eyes locked with hers for an instance, until all she saw were flames.

* * *

 

“You loved him - - then you hated him - then you became friends, and  _now_  you’re getting married. It’s all a bit - confusing, to be honest,” said Mary as Molly went through the lot of robes available, each and every one too much or too little. There were few in stock and many in demand, so it wasn’t surprising that prices were high, and some of the robes available were ‘less pleasing’. “How do you actually feel about that or are you going to pretend you’re fine?”

“I _am_  fine.”

“Right,” said Mary with a raised brow. “You’ve been staring at that - ugly  _dress_ or whatever hellish creation that is for the last ten minutes. It’s not going to turn lovelier the more you touch it.” 

Molly sighed, letting go off the garment, as her palms were sweaty. “…It’s just happening so fast.”

“I think everyone who’s being forced to marry right now, sort of agree with that - - s _orry_ ,” Mary added the second Molly shot her a look.

“You had the choice… I feel like I forced Sherlock-,”

“Sherlock would never do something he’d been forced to-,”

“He’s still trying to fix it, though, maybe he’ll - actually - you know - stop it-,” she said stopping up when she saw it, her breath almost catching in her throat as she found the perfect robes to wear, which were modest, yet lovely.

“He’s got three days,” said Mary clucking her tongue. “He’s cutting it fine.” Briefly Molly looked at her friend who smiled at her when she saw what her eyes had light up for, though the light soon faded, and she considered just redoing some old robes she already had stashed away in her closet. “Oh get it. It’s your day,” said Mary encouragingly. 

Reluctantly she did.

* * *

 

The day had come - she ignored the paper - barely ate any of her breakfast - flat-out refused to read any of the rather premature congratulatory letters she’d received, and gotten dressed without much protest. It felt like any other day, except she would be marrying Sherlock at the Ministry, or well, in the department that permitted such a thing.

It would be quite the event if they were married right in front of the fountain, and she knew he’d like to keep it as hush-hush as possible. Though, the press would probably be there in some way or the other, and a handful of friends too.

She was luckily flooing in, as Mycroft’s private office was made useful for the occasion. Molly could not imagine going through the regular entry in her white robes with a mere hint of pale pink. It was supposed to be special, and she had of course put enough charms to deflect any dust or smut from hitting her fine frock. She almost groaned at her attention to detail when she finally got to her fireplace, soon clutching that familiar green powder in her bare hand.  _“Mycroft Holmes’ office”._  

“ - Perhaps telling her would-,” the voices stopped talking when she walked out of the fireplace with a tentative smile on her face, which she could only imagine was verging on awkward.

Sherlock stood with his brother, looking rather dashing in his formal black robes, and he stared rather wide-eyed at her for a few seconds, though he soon cut past his brother with quick long strides. “Molly.  _Good._  We should go.” 

“Oh - umm-,” she began hoping for at least a moment to breathe or think - but it seemed he wanted the event to happen as quickly as possible.  _Obviously._  The look on his brother’s face seemed rather worried and she shared the sentiment. From the way they’d stopped speaking as she appeared, it was clear, all things weren’t well, and the fact that he just took her hand, before he began to drag her along with his brother in tow, did not set her at ease.

“ _Sherlock!”_  she hissed, but his hold on her hand only grew tighter, and several other Ministry workers stared at her with wide eyes, as they passed by in a hurry. A bride being dragged along by her groom was probably a sight to behold, especially when it was clear that the witch was getting annoyed by the grooms overexcitement, which in Sherlock-speak meant - the opposite of excitement.

“Stop!” Molly didn’t want to make a scene, but she had to wrench her hand out of his, so he’d finally stop to her relief.

He turned to look at her with such an innocent look on his face; she didn’t know what to think. If she took his hand, she could have him, but - not like this - never like this. 

“Maybe -  _maybe_  - we shouldn’t-,” she said with her eyes downcast, annoyed that she felt the familiar prickles at her eyes, as she didn’t know what was worst - marrying him when he didn’t love her  _or_ seeing him marry someone else. The former won, without a doubt, though both set an ache in her heart, like something fierce.

She was supposed to be over that whole life, those silly little thoughts… They all belonged to the past. 

“…You read the paper, didn’t you?” said Sherlock which made her immediately look up to find him untying the knot around his neck with a forlorn look in his eyes.

_“What?”_

“I suggest you take your domestic elsewhere - the whole of the Ministry seems to be watching,” said Mycroft shaking his head briefly at the pair of them, which made her even more aware of the people were staring at them confused.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft and the rest of them however, his eyes solely on her.  

“The new law was cancelled-,” he said. “From little to no effort from Mycroft who apparently enjoyed seeing me squirm. Our Minster set the law in motion for personal gain, as he - well - rather lacked a witch himself.”

“…Oh - but-,” and so she gaped at him when she saw and understood the tender look on his face -

“I didn’t want to change the plans, no,” he said, his hands made into fists by his sides.  

Molly blinked foolishly, aware of the people staring, aware of his brother rolling his eyes, but she only moved forward to stand before him, softly touching her hand upon his cheek. He’d only ever been nervous and worried and anxious - just like her - and she wanted to be angry at him for being so thick, then she knew, she’d be berating herself.

He leaned against her palm with a soft smile on his face.  

“ _If_ you want me, of course, though that’s only logical,” he said, his smile turning into a smirk, but she saw the nervous hope in his eyes. 

Still very much scared.

She knew her answer though.

“Of course.”

 


	54. Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mistykins06 asked me to do number 23: meeting on a train ride au

Skinheads in third carriage or woman with a screaming baby in second or fourth carriage with vomit all over the seats or - - fifth one with  _one woman?_ _There’s hardly a choice in the matter, though he doesn’t enjoy the potential social intercourse, but she seems of a quiet disposition when he enters._ Her brown eyes briefly flit upwards at the sight of him, eyebrows slightly raised, and he almost sighs at the recognition of ‘attraction’. Usually it takes more time, then again, the more time given to interaction the less attractive he becomes, or so, his older brother has said (quite happily too, “I wouldn’t worry too much about the opposite sex, Sherlock. They don’t worry about you.”).

Sitting down Sherlock considers deducing the woman across from him, but he’s too bored to bother. It’s too easy. She’s nibbling on a red pen - her pink rucksack is filled with thin notebooks - and her pen keeps tracing red ink over paper. 

_Teacher._

Simple.

Boring.

It’s hardly science, but she manages to drop said notebook held aloft in her hand onto the floor. He picks it up -  _not_ \- out of social niceties, but because the pages aren’t riddled with children’s writing - “…Physicist?” he said with knitted brows bemused by the equations he sees from within.

She takes the book from him with one tug and mumbles a small barely heard ‘thank you’, before clearing her throat, eyes fixed on him. “No, I’m, umm, just doing this for a friend,” she said almost like she was apologizing.

"Hobby of yours?"

"Yeah…" she said with a shrug, and then her attention is back on colouring the page seemingly red.

"You’re not a teacher then?" he said, annoyed he was wrong.

He’s never wrong.

"Sorry?" she said looking at him surprised. "No? Why did you think that?”

"It’s hardly a large jump. You’re correcting coursework."

She giggles, soon smiling. “Oh - okay…I’m actually studying to become a pathologist - - not that you cared about that, sorry.”

"Oh," he said unable to help his smile. 

He’s almost exasperated she’s blushing. 

"That’s interesting," he said with raised brows.

“It is,” she said all of a sudden confident, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of such work. “…What are you going to be?” And he’s surprised by the question, which clearly shows on his face - “I mean - we’re the same age, aren’t we?”

He nods. “It’s mostly a hobby.”

“What  _hobby_?” she said with a smile.

“Chemistry.”

“ - -That’s a bit of a hobby.”

“Yes… though I suspect you’ll be better at it than me.”

“Me? Oh no, well, I don’t know how good you are  _now_ -,”

“Very good - take the compliment - -,” he looked at her waiting for her name, which prompted a confused look from her, until she suddenly stammered out -

“ _Molly._  Molly Hooper,” she said pushing aside her hair from her face. “And-,” but her brown eyes widened all of a sudden - “- oh my god! - it’s my stop, I’m - sorry-,” quickly she picked up her things, making an apologetic face at him - - and then she was gone.  

“Good,” he murmured to himself. “No distractions.”

Ten years later he does agree with that particular sentiment, and it’s hardly surprising he turns her coffee offer, but, then again,  _she_  didn’t remember him at all. 

 


	55. Going Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going away to war au

Her eyes constantly dart towards the train - shouts of _goodbyes_  ring across the station from friends, lovers and family, most of them tearful. Nobody know if it’ll be their last or not. She knows that it’s unusual -  _she’s_  the one going off - while he’s staying behind, forced into the agency - with his brother. She’s capable, she’s seen blood before, but she knows not what to expect at the front. “So…” he begins slowly and her mouth quirks up briefly, but the corners dart downwards anyway.

It’s all been left unsaid - here they are - parting like  _friends_. She knows he knows what she feels, or at least he should know. She’s been terrible obvious she finds. He’s…he’s everything to her, despite his many flaws, but she’s not blind to them. “So,” she repeats after him, drawing a breath, as she wonders whether she should continue standing there or board. 

Her eyes go to the train again, but she looks back at him again. It’s one of those few moments she doesn’t know what he’s thinking, and for once she’s in the dark.  _What’s going on in that head of his?_  “…I should get on.”

She doesn’t really want to hear it, whatever he’s taking so long to say, as he shouldn’t find it hard, not really. But she’s not moving either. 

"Yes," he says nodding slightly, and she finally does.

She can still see him, but he’s not moving along either.

There the engine suddenly goes. Her eyes widen, as she realizes she’s finally going. She doesn’t know what to say, staring at the man she’s unsure whether or not will still be there when she finally returns, whenever that is.

And suddenly she knows that face, sees it so well.

He’s sad. 

And suddenly he says something. 

Smoke and sound covers it. 

By the time she has understood what he said, the train has left. 

_"I love you."_


	56. Nicknames

"Do you two  _actually_ call each other anything?” said John out of the blue, suddenly frowning at his own words. He really was tired, as he was willing having this conversation with a man who immediately turned to look at him like he’d gone mad.

"What?"

”..You know - names - people who love each other, umm, not that I’m saying you - never mind - I mean - have you ever called her-,”

“ _Baby_?” said Sherlock with an appalled expression. 

"Yeah?" 

He couldn’t help laughing. 

"No." 

"Ah, alright. Honey, then? Or maybe sweetie?"

"No - and - no."

"…My pathologist?"

"Possessive terms don’t really suit me."

John snorted. “Yeah right, let’s be honest here - it would be like you-,”

"It’s not-," he said in a sing-song voice. 

"Fine - - fine."

A minute passed. 

"I have called her Doctor, however."

"…That just opened a completely different door," muttered John regretting he’d asked to begin with. 

"Army Doctor and _Doctor_  aren’t the same thing,” said Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. 

"Okay, okay, no need to say anything else. What you do is yours to never bloody tell me about, okay?"

“ _Fine.”_


	57. Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning after a one-night stand (where they don't know each other from before)

She’s on her side facing the wall, it’s easier, or so she thinks. She’s never done this before. Or well, she has, but usually she never brought anyone home with her. She’s just moved in. The flat still smells unfamiliar and there’s a fresh just-purchased smell lingering over her furniture. It’s not been lived in properly yet, and she’s done _this._  

Molly feels strange enough as it is in London, and it does exacerbate it a tiny bit. Also. Shouldn’t he have left ages ago? Isn’t that what people do? She’s usually got her shoes on at this point, gingerly cutting across the bedroom floor and passing whomever she’s left behind. 

Twice.

Okay, she’s done it - okay - it’s technically the second time  _now_.

There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not her fault that she usually is in a relationship of some kind. Letting out a breath she smiles, hiding her face underneath the covers and hoping to God she’ll not have to struggle through some mediocre conversation. She has work.  _Work._ Actual adult responsibilities, but - there is a naked man in her bed. Slowly she turns around, feeling red seep into her cheeks at the sight of him.

He’s still fit. 

It’s not like he wasn’t fit the night before, but she was worried that he might be less fit than what she recalled. There was always that chance. One drink too many, after all. There had been several. 

But he was undeniably - 

"You’re staring-," drawled a voice, a rather deep voice.

She blinked. 

It was him. “Sorry?” she said with a small laugh. 

"You’re not used to this, I suppose-," he said, blue eyes suddenly open, eyebrow raised, and before she’s had a chance to properly digest it he’s on his feet.

Pale skin flashes in front of her. He doesn’t owe any shame, slipping on his dark designer trousers on without any pants. Molly almost points out his quite obvious  _problem_  that he just sighs at, glancing at her briefly like he’s considering something, but he buttons up his trousers. 

…Okay. 

" - - Well - I had fun -," he said, a quick smile appearing and disappearing on his face. Immediately she wishes she still faced the wall " - - bye." 

Then he’s gone. 

_Weird_ , she thinks as she drops down onto the bed with a huff. He didn’t seem like an arse the night before, but then again, he was the best sex she ever had, which was probably something she shouldn’t have told him. She had barely gotten a wink of sleep that night, drifting from sleep to sex, from sex to sleep again and again. No man she’d ever had had ever been like that. Ever. And of course there was the  _talking_ , which she’d been a bit unprepared for really. Then again, she’d been unprepared in general. Her body didn’t really feel up for a nine hour shift, at all. Despite it, she got to her wobbly feet and decided to brave the day. 

What was the worst that could happen?

* * *

 

St Bart’s had lovely facilities. Everything was brand new and there was plenty of money pouring in, apparently, according to her boss Mike Stamford. “We’ve got a benefactor of sorts whose brother comes round.”

"Oh… is he  _special_?” she asked with a smile, as she’d been used with that in Edinburgh. She didn’t mind sharing a lab with someone whoever they were really. 

Mike grinned. “Sounds like you’ve met him,” he said laughing. “No, he’s - umm - he’s a weird one I suppose, well, to anyone who doesn’t know him. But I think he’ll like you.”

"What does he do here?"

"He helps the police out on difficult cases -," Mike looked to the door, there was a banging noise in the distance, he snorted - "Probably him now."

And so the door to the lab swung open - a man walked in wearing a dark coat with its collar turned up. Curly dark curls and piercing blue eyes.

It was the fit man. 

“ _Oh my God.”_

Mike looked at her in surprise. 

"Umm - I-," she began, blinking rapidly. 

"Molly Hooper, we meet again," said the man with a smile. 

"Sherlock - have you two met already?" said Mike rolling his eyes. "I told you not to check up on her first… I hope he didn’t scare you away, did he?"

She gaped wordlessly, unsure what to say. 

Sherlock, however, replied for her - “Oh, she wouldn’t be standing if I’d managed to do that, now, would she?” he smirked, eyes glinting. 

 


	58. A lock of your hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meeting at a masquerade ball au

“ - - I shall require a lock of your hair-,” said Mr Wokingham all charms and manners, unlike Mr Holmes. “Or do you not wish to part from a golden tress?  …It is merrily a small token and quite the reward for such a good competitor.”

Mrs Holmes wasn’t ignorant of what may be said of her granting Mr Wokingham permission to carry a piece of her in his breast pocket. 

She knew that many saw her less than noble birth as an obstacle that would hinder her to see the possible errors in such a gift, though it would be most unwillingly bestowed, despite Mr Wokingham’s amiability.

All of it hinged on whether or not she would lose at cards; a game she had by great stubbornness become proficient with, though Mr Holmes had pointed out the less than lady-like traits of such a  _skill._ Her attendance at the masquerade had much to do with her husband’s less than gentleman like manners that she’d grown more grieved with by every meal they shared. 

He was a disagreeable man by all accounts, and though she knew she should have been grateful to be elevated in status - to see riches and experience wonders - but it did not feel like a marriage of two minds.

Perhaps she had been selected because her less than gracious manners would prove less troublesome, and so her ire rose, and her answer became - “I have no objection to such a scheme,” she said with all grace, though the mere minute the words had parted from her - she regretted them. 

Mr Wokingham just looked entertained patting his breast pocket, eyes gleaming behind his mask, as if he’d already predicted his own victory. When the game begun anew she felt rather tricked, for here came quicker twists and turns, and not the questioning glances he’d given her at the many turns they’d had in the past. Here was a practised player, a gentleman well familiar with the cards before him, and by every card that she surrendered to him, the more did she see that her loss was imminent.

“I think it is clear who the victor is,” Mr Wokingham said at the end of their game and her heart leapt. Wringing her hands she attempted to suggest another prize, but the gentleman would not have any other, would not claim anything less of value, for indeed it seemed that she was more than a jewel.

Quietly she gathered herself and proposed that they venture where others would be less preoccupied with their pursuits. Mr Wokingham did not disagree, following her wordlessly throughout the masquerade, and so they reached the garden to admire the lily pond.

“It seems rather…disturbed than when we first came here, Mr Wokingham,” she said distracting herself from their foolishness, though it did not help, the masquerade had turned into a quiet murmur now, perhaps every guest would be speaking of where she had disappeared to.

“I suppose - -  _now_  - I must trespass upon you a little madam to get my reward-,” he said, his voice rather more thick and velvet than before.

Mrs Holmes did not speak - letting him approach her, her back to his tall frame and she felt his fingers dance on the back of her throat. She almost jolted at such a tentative touch, even if his hand was warm, and she laughed awkwardly against the night.

“I apologize Mrs Holmes,” he murmured by her ear and then she heard and felt the cut occur. There was just something so different about Wokingham, something peculiar that she could not lay her hand upon, as he’d been less animated after they’d arrived at the masquerade. His spirits had certainly risen, but they were at a much more satisfying pace than usual.

Mrs Holmes recovered, turning around on the spot to smile at Mr Wokingham who bore a similar smile, but before she had time to suggest their returning to the ball, he had taken off her mask.

“Whatever did you-,” she began taken aback by his action, though much more so by the way he brought her close, large hands at the small of her back, eyes still gleaming down upon her behind his mask.  

Her protest clung in the back of her throat, and even further when he broke a kiss upon her.

She expected wild and un-gentleman like behaviour entwined with such a kiss, but it was soft, gentle, and memorable. It did not send her away, but brought her closer to his fine figure. Never such a kiss had she had, never had she yielded so easily, not even feeling an ounce of guilt, only -  _familiarity._  And then she felt cold when he drew back, his back straight - “…Thank you  _Mrs Holmes_.” His black figure stole into the night, and regret finally seeped into her;  _whatever have I done?_

* * *

Mrs Holmes did not take her breakfast that morning, choosing instead to take a walk, as she was out of spirits. She had not managed any rest, her sleep fretful at best. Her husband did not request entry to their bedchamber, though she hardly expected him to do so either, as it had never been his custom.

His absence did not make her feel any less keenly the bitter sting of what she had let be done to her. Amongst the garden she stood, her hands clasped firmly together when she was startled to find Mr Wokingham appearing un-masked and rather harried of appearance.

“Mrs Holmes!” he said sighing deeply afterwards, his brows set into a deep frown. She started, her cheeks flushing, as she tried to find a means to escape. It wasn’t unnatural for him to seek her out as such, though after such an incident she would have presumed he’d be gentleman-like enough to keep his distance.

There was no path to be found and she did not have the strength to carry herself any further upon the grounds, so she stood, as calmly as she could. “You must have my sincerest apologies Madam for abandoning you to the dreaded vultures of polite society last night.”

“Sir-,” she began confounded.

“Some ruffian thrust me into a pond and I lost my very mask at the action. You must understand Mrs Holmes that I never intended any slight with my disappearance, but I was treated unjustly myself, so, I could not part with you as I should have.”

“I - I - - - you have nothing to worry about Mr Wokingham -we are still firm acquaintances,” she said with a genuine smile. “But I must take my leave. It’s a very important day, you see, and I must be at my husbands side.”

Mr Wokingham smiled before smoothly bowing in the return, while Mrs Holmes’ mind raced over his confession.  _He wasn’t even there!_ She had been the victim of a great trick - some villain had stolen Mr Wokingham’s mask - and then persuaded her to let her guard down. Somehow Mrs Holmes knew exactly  _whom_  to blame for such a trick!

When she entered the breakfast room she found Mr Holmes seated with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. He was very attentive in drink and reading, his actions slow, and his attentions not directed at her. “Mr Holmes?” she enquired glad to see one of the servants quit the room.

Her husband did not stir. 

“ _Mr Wokingham_?” 

“Yes?” he said laying the paper down to take a tentative sip of his tea, his blue eyes twinkling.

“I know that you do not favour Mr Wokingham-,” she began as coolly as she could, her temper stirring within her.

“Do not  _favour_?” he said with his brows furrowed. “Molly - I positively loathe the man. He is a moron of the highest degree. He makes certain colleagues of mine at the Scotland Yard seem particularly luminous!”

“Tricking your own wife was your approach instead of enlightening me of his ill qualities?  …I would have listened.”

China slammed into the table. “Would you? We’ve barely spoken since our marriage of _convenience_. I find it rather hard to believe you would listen.”

Mrs Holmes stared.

“Why is it that whenever I feel like approaching you to give you the benefit of my doubt - you cast me aside?” she said quietly. “Any sign of hope of our marriage being more than it is - laughed at -  _well_ \- perhaps I shall stay away for a while husband and let you make up your mind of what you want me to be.”

He did not stop her.  _Oh, how she hated him._


	59. A Great Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> librarian/avid reader au

He hates his job. 

 

She assumes he does by the way he snaps books shut and puts his stamp into them, taking in every edition she’s handled with care roughly, and she half-expects him to throw them across the library in annoyance, scoffing here and there. There’s nothing about him that smacks of librarian, as he doesn’t almost let his nose hit the pages of the books while he reads.

 

Instead his shoulders are back, his posture proper and his mouth is constantly twitching in some kind of secret amusement over the seriousness of the pages. Every time he has his hands on poetry he makes particular faces, though sometimes his expressions turn neutral, and she knows he’s enjoyed whatever phrase or wording there. 

 

Molly spends less time reading these days, as observing him is like reading about a character in a book. He’s so strange and ridiculous and rude and marvellous. She likes him and hates him at the same time, constantly hoping to spot him in his high chair to purse at her choices or praise her with a single word - ‘ _good_ ’. 

 

Somehow despite how messy he seems internally, everything around him is organized, he knows every shelf and every place, and can direct her wherever, even if the book is ‘ _an abomination’_. Usually he is right and she grudgingly attempts to finish the book out of sheer spite. He just smirks when she returns them earlier than expected, like he knows when she isn’t gobbling them up like usual. “Do you do…anything else?” she asks one day, eyes on her rucksack as she tries to fish up her card. 

 

“Why?” he says in an almost accusatory tone, which almost makes her laugh, because she’s almost predicted he’d react like this, peculiar to such a normal question.

 

“Umm, since you probably don’t always work in the library,” she asks with a small smile handing him her card. “…Meaning would you like to have a coffee with me - really?” 

 

He blinks snapping the card from her, soon sliding it through the machine, before he holds the card in his palm.

 

It’s not helping her nerves that he’s silent, but she plucks the card from his hand and releases it into her rucksack again.

 

“So…that’s a no, then?” she says with a small nod, laughing stupidly to cover his silence, as she begins to walk backwards intending to speed out in embarrassment. 

 

“No?” he says looking equally bewildered making her halt.

 

“What?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Coffee?” he says standing up.

 

“Now?” she says.

 

“Why not?” he says. 

 

“But-,” she begins, but he doesn’t listen to her protests.

 

He did hate his job, as he lost it the same day. 

 


	60. Your Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> best friends siblings au

Molly Hooper is the friend of his little brother. She’s the one who’s supposed to stutter, who’s supposed to steal glances, and ask questions. It’s not supposed to be the other way around. He suspects it’s because she accidentally entered his room her first time visiting. Instead of rushing out, instead of a torrent of apologies - he gets a brief mumbled one, before she stares at his bookshelf with pursed lips for five minutes and then sighs walking out. 

 

He doesn’t know what that means.

 

He ends up staring at his bookshelf for about an hour trying to understand  _why_  she found it disinteresting. He has books of science, of history, even a slim book of poetry, which his father gave to him (at some vague attempt at making him ‘romantic’). He’s almost irritated if it’s just because  _she_  doesn’t find it interesting, and immediately he casts her aside as dull.

 

Molly Hooper will be forgotten, but she visits,  _frequently._

 

In the kitchen or in the living room she is found laughing or joking and being herself. It’s annoying, and confusing, and frustrating, and he’s supposed to be older, serious, and not in touch with those parts of himself. But she doesn’t dismiss him; she’s nice, sometimes soft-spoken, and sometimes loud. She’s all or nothing. “She’s a girl,” says his older brother.

 

“No, she’s Molly,” says Luka.

 

Silently - he agrees.

 

It’s with some mild horror some months later that he finds her with a short skirt and feet on his chair. Her socks are bright pink and there’s a wide smile on her face, as she’s seated with one of  _his books_  on her lap.

 

She looks up at him briefly, pink splotches finally appearing in her cheeks - “Luka let me borrow it,” she says, and he just frowns.  _He’s_ supposed to be the interesting one, not the girl with a dead father and a depressed mother.

 

It’s not his intention to say it out loud, but the book hits him in the chest almost knocking the air out of him. Luka doesn’t speak with him for a whole week. His life barely shakes and trembles at his younger brother’s defiance, but it’s her absence that stirs it. She arrives all of a sudden three weeks later, lips continuously pursed in the house, and sighs constantly released. Finally she looks at him constantly; finally she barely manages to say a word in front of him, but it doesn’t feel like a victory, there is no victory in this.

 

He does something she doesn’t expect (nor does he). It’s simple, it’s a gesture, and it’s something that his father would assume was romantic. But her reaction isn’t what he expects. There’s no thank you. There’s no return to the house on finding the book in her rucksack. There’s just silence. Weeks later when the question is finally posed, when Molly Hooper’s absence has been felt - “Oh, she moved away,” says Luka with a shrug.

 

He excuses himself to his room and stares at his bookshelf. 

 

There’s an empty space where the book used to be.

 


	61. What we do at home, stays at home

"Lap dance?"

 

"No," he says quickly throwing in a look for good measure.

 

"Strip tease?"

 

A furrow appears between his brows, while she giggles.

 

"It would be fun to watch," she says with a casual shrug.

 

It’s hardly casual and she can’t help but smile. 

 

"I am not executing a strip tease," he drawls in a rather royal manner, lazily still lying on her sofa. 

 

"You make it sound like I’d film it."

 

"Would you?" he says with a raised brow. 

 

She blinked. 

 

"Voyerism?"

 

The corner of his mouth goes up. 

 

She almost splutters, her cheeks flaming up, as she tries to calmly go ahead - “So..you’d like to film us and then - - watch it?”

 

He grins. 

 

"Oh, oh right," she says after a minute. 

 

"Bedroom?"

 

"Mhm."


	62. Long Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melina92 asked me for 39 ‘long distance relationship’

The umbrella is half destroyed by the foul wind by the time she gets home, her clothes soaked by rain, smelling like autumn. She could have opted for a taxi, but she needed a walk to think, to clear her head. She’s never been a fan of  _longing_ , it feels like something teenagers do, but she feels the pitter-patter of it thrumming underneath her skin.

 

It makes breathing tricky all of a sudden, like her lungs have slimmed down, and she’s not surrounded by air all of the time. There’s the constant repetitions in her mind, the sort that she can’t help but replay, especially on a day like this. Nothing started out well from broken coffee mugs, to stained paper work, to shouting colleagues, to thinking of him. They feel like nothing really, except mundane tasks and she hates the weight at the bottom of her stomach.

 

He’s not dead, but he is gone.

 

Gone for now.

 

Gone for how long? 

 

"Some years," he had said, the whispered words almost putting pressure on her skin, before he awkwardly  _hugged_  her. She’d been grateful, forgetting herself by shutting her eyes and letting herself relax for a little while. There hadn’t been any other confession.

 

She was important. 

 

She did count. 

 

Repeating the words didn’t make her believe them any more. 

 

The way he had looked at her, his eyes fixed up at her window,  _the blood_  smeared on his face before he was gone. That was how she remembered him. Alive. Not buried. Not his funeral. The funeral she still cried at, burdened by the weight of not telling, of seeing another accomplice present with his frown in place. She had been surprised when Mycroft handed her an envelope advising her to open it at home. She did. One sheet of paper with one word scrawled in that almost indecipherable writing - _'Wait'._ She kept it in the bottom of her drawer, picking it up once in a while, constantly wondering what it meant.

 

Other letters came, sometimes even post-cards from a ‘Sigurd’, sometimes the letters were on a frail sheet with a few lines of ‘ _Thought of you today. Still alive’,_ or all of a sudden pages upon pages with words, his line of thought splattered across rough paper. She did wonder how he’d react to Mycroft’s plan, as his brother had suddenly found out one disastrous thing - “There are signs that suggest that James Moriarty is still alive - - we both know how fond my little brother is of you - - we must give the impression that you don’t care.”

 

She didn’t like the ring she’d been given or the  _fiancé. ‘_ Tom’ was surprisingly okay, and they met quite often to give the impression of ‘something’, as she’d been told they were being watched. She was being watched. She wondered if he was too or what he was doing or where he was.

 

The letters had stopped a while back.

 

Maybe he’d gotten wind of it, maybe he knew of her  _fiancé_. Shaking off her umbrella she got upstairs to her flat, though when she was about to fish out the key - the door was already open.

 

Molly pushed the door open slowly, greeted by the darkness of her flat - “Hello?” she said swallowing as she stepped inside, and her cat Toby appeared by her ankles purring calmly.

 

Maybe she’d forgotten to lock the door - maybe she’d - 

 

"You’re engaged," scoffed a voice. 

 

Maybe not. 


	63. How to steal a million

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> partners in crime sherlolly au

Her mother was  _why_  she was there, besides her father obviously, though she hardly felt like concerning the supposed  _master thief_  that was Mr Holmes with her worries, though he had already astutely observed that there were certain similarities in the small ‘venus’ statue and her, which made her jerk her head away and tell him to go ahead with his plan.

 

After that she did wonder if he figured out that her father dealt in forgeries, but she didn’t want to ask. He might not wish to be involved with her anymore - - not that she wished he be involved with her in the first place.

 

He was a thief!

 

She had enough of liars in her life after all, and it was her father’s own lying that got them into this kind of trouble. Years and years of forgeries sold, and now finally someone would be double-checking the credibility of this lone artifact which had been made one drunken night with her mother.

 

_Oh father._

 

Perhaps it was luck that made Mr Holmes appear in her family home trying to steal one of their Monet’s (or well - not Monet). But Miss Hooper did rethink her luck when they were both stuffed into a tiny cupboard thrown half-way into the dark - “Is this a part of the plan?” she whispered when she knew the security guards had finally walked away. 

 

"Of course," he said. She already knew the kind of expression on his face, which would of course if seen properly infuriate her, though she was distracted enough being in such close proximity to the man. "Worry about impropriety at another time, Molly." 

 

She huffed in the dark. “…I just hoped this would go faster.”

 

"One million takes time and patience."

 

"Fine…"

 

"Are you worried that we might not steal the forgery in time then?"

 

"How -  _how_  did you-,”

 

Molly knew he was smiling at her, the same smile he’d shot her when she found him trying to steal to begin with, though at that time she held a gun in her hand. “Most of the female portraits in your home are alike, as you’ve grown up with them you’ve hardly noticed. Your mother must have been a beautiful woman…”

 

She drew a breath uncertainly all of a sudden. “Thank you?”

 

"Yes. Now. It’s time to make the alarm go off."

 

She was about to shout in response, but found herself overwhelmed by a pair of soft and warm lips that drew back quietly after a minute - “It’s all a part of the plan, Molly,” he said. 


	64. Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday au

_A holiday retreat for married couple’s?_  She suggests how extremely good it would be if him and John go together. Practically progressive actually if it were them two! Maybe even a bit more believable for the case - “No, he wasn’t interested. So. I’ll pick you up eight o’clock tomorrow? Pack a bag. We’ll be there a full week.” Her attempts at evading the whole ‘disaster waiting to happen’ get shot down even by her boss who’s more than chuffed at her being involved despite them being ‘understaffed’ (so, someone’s been paid extra she supposes). 

 

She packs a bag later that night, eyeing her naughtier knickers with a dismissive eye almost resembling Sherlock, and she can almost hear him say  _"Molly."_ disapprovingly. It’s all safe underwear in the end. The sort of un-sexy granny pants that look like they can be used as a hammock and there’s jumpers and then - “Where is this retreat at?” and she texts Sherlock to get - - 

 

_**Bahamas - SH** _

 

_Fuck._ Out with the grandmother and in with the  _might-get-some-colour pink bikini._ It’s not sexy if it’s generally hot, and the weather report speaks of sun and more sun. 

 

Suddenly the case is something to look forward to.

 

She’s still caught off guard when he appears looking much the same with his coat and she’s wondering if he’ll be sporting that look the whole holiday. She almost asks.

 

"The car is waiting."

 

So much for imagining him in bathing shorts with goldfish on (she doesn’t know why that’s the first she thinks about really…It’s too early in the morning). She’s got a ring and a new passport the second they’re on Heathrow and she’s almost nervous, except they enter differently with MI6 dogging them. Even Sherlock’s brother makes an appearance, the pair of them sharing a whispered conversation while she taps her foot on the carpeted floors.

 

All planned.

 

Of course. 

 

She’s more worried about whether or not they’ll be convincing, maybe she’ll look too nervous, or not happy enough, or not comfortable, or maybe everyone will think they don’t fit together.

 

"Molly. _Breathe_ ,” he says when he reaches her side and takes her hand easily. 

 

She does breathe. 

 

And then they’re off in the plane and she’s hiding behind a book she hasn’t read in ages.  _Frankenstein._ Maybe it’s a bit weird. Okay, it’s very weird, she thinks and almost laughs, but Sherlock doesn’t blink, still holding her available hand at every chance, his finger prodding at the diamond on her finger, like he’s testing it. She’s tried not to stare at his wedding band too hard or think too hard that he’s holding her hand so comfortably. 

 

He’s good, she reminds herself, and remembers all the previous smiles and flirtations throughout the years, but somehow, it feels right. 

 

"Read to me?" he says after a while. 

 

And she blinks at him underneath the light shining down on her pages, but she does whisper the words about the monster and its creator, bewildered when Sherlock’s head is somehow on her shoulder, his eyes shut. She doesn’t wake him, just lets him sleep and tries not to think too hard about what is an innocent gesture, a child-like gesture. 

 


	65. Shock Blanket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shock blanket snog

She lets out a breath in the cold, surrounded by the almost twinkling lights of the police cars and ambulance nearby, that can’t drown out the sounds of people and traffic. They’ve been advising her to take deep breaths to calm herself down, but she is already calm, her hands are finally steady after all. It’s not like she’s in shock any longer, though now she’s just trying to keep warm, to stay put.

 

He asked her if she could wait -  _asked_  - he didn’t tell her to. 

 

In the distance she can see him, also wearing the blanket around his shoulders looking annoyed and pestered as everyone else hovers around him. He seems to excuse himself with the press by pointing at the probably  _affronting_  orange blanket, and then she’s taken aback to see him standing in front of her, shock blanket still in place.

 

He’s staring with a curious look in his eyes, like he’s trying to figure her out, as if it’s the first time they’ve met, but she hasn’t dropped her scalpel, nor is she giggling. It’s just them. The pair of them. Normal. Like it’s been for some time now. Instead of allowing the silence to drag out, or let anyone else pull him to talk she finally speaks.

 

"…Probably should say thank you?" she says, mouth quirking upwards, as she looks up at him.

 

He gapes ever so slightly, shutting his mouth quickly when he gathers he looks like a fool, and then he inclines his head an inch.  

 

"Yes. I suppose I should," he says slowly, and she grins waiting for the  _thank you_  - having saved his life for apparently the third time (though she doesn’t know when the  _second_  time was, but she’ll ask later). 

 

He continues to stare again, but she waits patiently for his ‘thank you’ feeling surprisingly giddy. It must be some left-over adrenaline she supposes staring him right in his eyes, almost laughing at him for being so extremely - - - she doesn’t see it coming, but she doesn’t pull back. 


	66. An Old...Something

Stamford was different than her previous boss back in Edinburgh, as if she wouldn’t miss Pike, but Stamford seemed more lenient, though he did mince his words a bit more. “Just a brief warning - we’ve got a regular-,” he’d said one day, coffee cup in hand and lips firmly pursed.

 

“Regular in the morgue?” she’d said carefully with a raised brow, which had gained a brief chuckle from Stamford who then waved a hand.

 

“No, just you know-,” he shrugged a bit. “He’s keen on using our labs.”

 

“And we let him?”

 

“His brother is high up-,”

 

She’d grimaced then. “How high?”

 

“He’s paid for over half of the things you see standing in the lab,” said Mike raising his brows at her.

 

“So - I’ve got to be nice then?” she asked.

 

Mike gave a brief nod. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. He’s not too bad, a bit demanding at times-,” he began heading out of the lab, the back of his head showing itself to her while she stood bewildered on the spot.

 

“Mike? What’s his name?” she said with a laugh.

 

Mike popped his head back in the room, smiling briefly. “Sherlock Holmes.” He withdrew before she’d even had the chance to react.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes _… Will._  

 

She had chosen the one place in the whole of London that he visited frequently, though somehow she’d managed to escape unscathed as he was in Prague.

 

Somehow Will had become a celebrity - she’d heard some news back in Edinburgh, but she didn’t think he was that much of a name.

 

Pretending she didn’t know who the hell he was however, that was the real struggle, as she rather hoped they’d act like mature adults about it all (creating gossip wouldn’t help).

 

When the day finally came and Will finally stepped into the lab - - he stared at her for a full minute and then promptly turned on his heel - - she knew it wasn’t an option after all.


	67. I forgot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got asked by 221b-cupcakestreet to do ‘waking up with amnesia’.

**2012**

 

Mascara was running down her face, unsurprising really, though she’d hoped Christmas would be happier. Not in 221B Baker Street apparently. She was glad she’d hid away her silvery earrings and the bow from her hair, especially when the earrings kept banging the sides of her face. Molly was bound to have residue glitter on her cheeks, but that wasn’t the worst news this evening.

 

So… That didn’t work out after all. 

 

There she was trudging alone on the icy pavement with her half-empty bag; save for one well-wrapped present she’d not managed to leave behind. The others had asked her to stay, tempting her with wine, but unfortunately, there was also pity. How could she stay? …She’d only wanted to be nice.

 

Okay, she had hoped.

 

She’d always hoped with him, with Sherlock. It was silly really. Her - a grown woman reduced to schoolgirl antics, but that’s how he made her feel. She was just glad she told him off even if she felt like she’d not won any victory when he’d apologised, just more pity. One sip became two and three became five, and ‘maybe I should go’ when Sherlock didn’t reappear from his bedroom (after a moan had spilled through the sitting room - - “Who was that?” she’d asked John and he just gave her a vague smile).

 

…Was she really surprised?

 

He wasn’t secretly harbouring some fantasy about her.

 

No, when he thought she wanted to make him coffee - he was just being kind in his rejection, making it possible for her to keep on helping him with his work. He was just being kind. Shaking her head she kept on walking, gingerly attending to the ice as her heels weren’t the best for the current environment, but she really couldn’t handle a chatty cabbie wishing her a ‘happy Christmas’ while she was weepy in the back.

 

_Typical._

 

Unfortunately she still managed to slip. 

 

* * *

 

“Oh - she’s awake-,” her head hurt. It felt terribly heavy, then again so did the rest of her body, almost arguing against moving on the bed. She’d fallen on the ice - hadn’t she?  _Yes._  She had fallen on the ice, but it wouldn’t feel like this. Whatever this was. Molly cracked open her eyes, her vision a blur, until it cleared, though the room spun gently around for a while. Mild vertigo. Possibly low blood sugar.  _Probably._

 

“Mrs Holmes can you hear me?” said a voice.

 

Oh she’d lost it.

 

* * *

 

“You were in a car accident,” said the doctor with pursed lips. “I’m afraid it was more severe than ice, Mrs Holmes.” They kept saying  _that_  name, repeatedly, and she’d corrected them early on, but they kept making the same mistake. “You suffered some head trauma-,” he eyed the nurses - “- Obviously the trauma has lead to some - memory loss.”

 

“I’ve…what?”

 

“It might help reading today’s paper?” said the doctor gingerly, and soon one of the nurses appeared with a small smile. “I’d pay attention to the date, it might help the idea settle in your head.”

 

**Friday, 26 th December 2016**

 

“2016?” she said gaping. “I’m in the future? …I mean. I’m not in  _in_  the future, but I’m - - - sorry - I just-,”

 

“It’s a lot to take in, Mrs Holmes-,”

 

“Yes… it is,” she said after a minute. “Am I really married?”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock looked different, but still the same, same coat, same dark curls, yet different man. He was breathless when he crouched by the side of her bed clutching her hand, his fingertips tracing the patterns of her lifelines while the doctor explained.

 

Every time his eyes whirled to her they looked worried, his hand only holding hers more firmly, as if he was afraid he was losing her. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

 

“…Sherlock - what’s going on?” she asked despite the tears that fell down her cheeks. She didn’t even know why she was crying, she just was.

 


	68. Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretending to hate each other au

"No," she said tidying up after herself, snapping her gloves off and throwing them into the bin, while John blinked in the background and Sherlock just stared blankly in surprise. "I’ve got paperwork to do."

 

"It concerns your ex-,"

 

Molly flashed him a look, a hand perched on her hip, “And?” she said with raised brows. “I’ve helped you enough, haven’t I?”

 

"…I would have thought you’d be a bit more helpful, as it’s Christmas. Jim’s on my naughty list - I’d rather not add you too, Molly."

 

She looked like she considered the idea. “No,” she said shaking her head before she walked off. “You’ll have to find someone stupid enough to help you.”

 

* * *

 

She heard the door to her office softly click shut and she turned to see him standing by the door with a vague smile. “Are you okay?” she asked immediately forgetting everything on her desk. 

 

"You seemed to be enjoying that," he said. 

 

"I - I did," she said with a little laugh. "But I wish this was over…"

 

"Not before he’s dead."

 

"And then?"

 

He just looked at her with that soft smile on his face. ” - I should go,” he said with a small frown. The door to her office clicked shut again and she sighed against her desk.

 

Maybe.

 

Just maybe.

 

They’d be alright. 


	69. Knock Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knocking on the wrong door au

The door was yanked open and she held up the bottle of wine grinning. What she expected was Meena in her jim jams -  _not_  - a pale man with dark curls and a rather nice torso, but she wasn’t really surprised. “Oh - sorry - she didn’t even bother opening the door, did she? Not that I blame her though, you’re rather - - - umm, sorry.”

 

She pushed past the man amazed that her friend had adopted a more cluttered version of her old flat, while the man - Meena’s one night stand - just stared at her blankly. 

 

"Meena?" she cried out. " _Meena_?”

 

"She’s not here," said a surprisingly dark voice. 

 

And she whirled around on the spot, bottle still in hand and a confused expression on her face, before she realized her mistake. “…I went into the wrong flat, didn’t I? You’re the fit neighbor, aren’t you? I mean - sorry.”

 

"Fit?" he said slowly. 

 

"I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said anything really. Sorry - umm - I’ll just-," she hurried to the door, soon scurrying past him to the hallway. 

 

"What’s your name?" he said with a raised brow. 

 

She kept her eyes on his face, avoiding his torso and especially his pants. “Molly Hooper?” she said with a slight smile.

 

The man stared at her for a couple of seconds. 

 

"You missed her with one floor."

 

"Oh?- Okay thanks - and sorry again - I promise not to stare at you next time I see - - you."

 

"That would be disappointing, Molly Hooper," he said with a smirk. "Goodbye." The door finally smacked shut and she was left standing with surprisingly red cheeks. 

 


	70. Don't Joke

"Baxters been extra nice lately," she said with a small smile, though Sherlock only made a small throaty noise in return. "You don’t happen to know why?" 

 

"Why should _I_  know?” he drawled, eyes narrowed and intent on his fungi samples by the microscope. Molly shook her head briefly knowing fully well that Sherlock must have had something to do with her previously annoying colleague. Suddenly Peter Baxter wasn’t such an annoying prat, using the equipment and expecting  _the ladies_  to tidy after him. 

 

"Okay, then… He also took my no for an answer this time."

 

"Oh? Pity. I’m sure you’d find delight in a serial-dater," he said, lips briefly quirking upwards. "He’s not been single for more than a week since 1986."

 

She only laughed. “That was sweet of you, you know. Telling him off that is. I know you did.”

 

He furrowed his brows. “Shouting at your colleague constitutes as sweet? Hardly anyone here would disagree with what I did.” 

 

"I suppose not…" she said "Yeah, you’re right. You’re not sweet."

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

 

"…You’re mine," Molly said in an utterly innocent voice, brown honeyed eyes glinting brightly.

 

Sherlock gaped. 

 

"You’re my secret santa, right?" she asked grinning. 

 

His mouth snapped shut. 

 

* * *

 

 

**To JW from SH:**

 

_We need to swap._

 

_I need to have Molly._

 

_I’ll take your silence as a yes._

 

* * *

 

"Okay, so…you remember when you said that Sherlock said you  _shouldn’t_ joke?” said Meena carefully while Molly bit her lip. 

 

"Yeah?"

 

"I agree, not you in particular, but you just tend to choose the wrong moment."

 

"…It was the wrong moment, wasn’t it?"

 

"He did end up leaving a minute after didn’t he?"

 


	71. Hooper’s House of Curiosities

She’d barely had the time to turn off the snooze alarm on her mobile phone when she heard the door to her flat bang open and shut.  _Sherlock._ Molly sleepily smiled into her pillow, too tired to be annoyed he wasn’t considering that it was indecent to wake anyone -  _12 o’clock_  - she moaned as she sat up in the bed. Hearing the door to her bedroom open she was amazed to see Sherlock stride inside looking rather restless, soon rummaging through her closet, before peering vaguely underneath her bed by getting onto the floor.

 

She blinked in surprise. “What’s-,” she began when Sherlock deftly threw her a jewelry box. 

 

Anyone else would be ecstatic that their boyfriend of two years just handed them jewelry, but for Molly it was rather regular to get items from Sherlock. Not in the sense that she was decked in every glittering diamond, but the fact that besides using her flat as a bolt hole when they’d just met - he occasionally stashed important things at her flat. 

 

She would never forget the moment Meena who was looking for pasta found the crown jewels in the kitchen cupboard and wouldn’t remove the crown from her head for about an hour. At the time it seemed harder to explain  _why_  she was keeping things for him, but these days none of her friends really blinked (except for the incident with the tiger, which did have her ban him from Bart’s for three months). “How long?” she said eyeing the satin box, as Sherlock seemed to be planning the perfect hiding place. 

 

"Hmm…some months-," he said with furrowed brows grimacing as he stared at the top of her dusty closet. 

 

Somehow master thieves and criminals never thought her flat could be a good place to check, though it had been a while since he’d hidden something away at hers. Molly opened the box out of cheer curiosity and gazed at a lovely diamond ring in a shade of pink. “Oh - that’s lovely-,” she said almost tempted to try it on. “It’s important then?” From all she knew the diamond was cut from the last diamond of some deceased King or Queen in some faraway place. 

 

"Very - might be more than a couple of months-," said Sherlock distracted, as he got on his knees and crawled by her bed. "Or well - more."

 

"How much more?" she said with a crinkle of her nose, worried that the ring would suddenly result in him disappearing for a month or two. 

 

Sherlock coughed all of a sudden, as he opened the drawer on her night stand. “Some - years.”

 

"What’s wrong with this ring?" she said glad he was near her so she could see his face properly. 

 

He stopped disturbing things in her drawer, stilling as he was positioned on one knee now, a thoughtful expression on his face.

 

"Nothing. It merrily depends on your answer," he said.  

 

Molly stared, gaped, coloured, and doubted. 

 

"My - - answer?" she said after a minute of Sherlock just staring at her. 

 

"Yes? Where can I keep the ring?"

 

_Of course…_

 

"Oh -  _oh_ \- right - well - I don’t know you’re usually-,” she got out from underneath the covers, leaving the box behind while internally cursing her eyes for watering ever so slightly. She wasn’t supposed to be teary eyed over this, there was nothing to be teary eyed over - “The one who knows where to put it.”

 

"Molly," Sherlock said.

 

She turned around to find him still on his knee with the jewelry box in hand. “I chose a terrible moment to make a joke - obviously,” he said. 

 


	72. Banned From Bart's

"Why has he been banned?" said Lestrade curiously at ease while the voices were loud and rather grating on the other side of the door. They could see the pair through the glass. Molly and Sherlock were bickering, the latter using his impressive height to dominate the argument, but the former began shoving a finger pointedly in his chest, her cheeks flushed causing the consulting detective to take tentative steps backwards. 

 

John sighed and soon took a nip from his coffee. “You know-,” he gave a shrug - “- for  _Sherlock_  things.”

 

"Ah," said Lestrade as if understanding what that meant. 

 

"We both know how he’s like-,"

 

"He listens to her though."

 

"…I suppose he does," said John after a minute, suddenly thrown off by the silence and his eyes went to the window. Molly and Sherlock weren’t bickering anymore. " - - oh my god."

 

Before he’d managed to wrap his head around what was happening in front of him, it ended, and the doors banged open. Sherlock strode out wiping at his mouth before he snapped on a glove, his eyes had a blazing look about them, as he seemed to light up slightly when he said - 

 

"It was Derrick Potter."

 

" - - Oh?" said Lestrade slowly, clearly also confused. 

 

John pointed at the door. “But - I - did you just-,” he said shaking his head and grinning at the same time. 

 

"The ban is over John. Don’t worry."

 

Sherlock grinned at the pair of them before striding ahead. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Maybe he was just - you know - he was trying to get information from her?" said John with a thoughtful expression on his wife, while his wife stared at him dubiously. 

 

"Umm.. By asking her mouth? He doesn’t lock lips every time he wants to know something."

 

"How do we know? - - - He might?"

 

"Okay…" said Mary slowly. 

 

"He’s bloody faked an engagement to get in an office Mary - it’s not mad I’m questioning his snogging her."

 

"Proper snog then?" she said with a laugh. 

 

"Yeah," said John seriously. 

 

"I thought you meant more like a peck."

 

"A peck?"

 

"I could imagine a peck."

 

"It wasn’t a peck. It was - like watching - - two bloody teenagers having at it-,"

 

"Wow. Serious then…No wonder you’ve lost it."

 

"I haven’t  _lost_  it.”

 

"You have," said Sherlock looking rather bored stretched out on the sofa.

 

* * *

 

 

"You’re just friends then?" said John with knitted brows, as he peered up at Sherlock disbelievingly, silently happy he was holding some brandy. The rest of the party weren’t minding them much. Everyone was busy chatting away with each other, besides drinking generous amounts of alcohol and admiring the bibs and bobs of 221B. 

 

"Who on  _one_  occasion shared saliva,” said Sherlock in a bored voice.

 

"Just one?" said John. 

 

"…Yes."

 

"Except Lestrade saw you two  _another_  time as well.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “There - might have-,”

 

"Right," said John with a laugh grinning. "I’ll leave you to it  _mate._  Don’t want to cock block you. It’s Christmas after all.” John frowned at his own words, seemingly disturbed by them as well before he had the decency to walk off. 

 

"What?" said Sherlock bewildered and unnerved by the way everyone present in his flat were staring at him, some covert - others blatantly obvious and some even waving. 

 

They all seemed to be under the presumption of something. Only one person was distractedly eating some mixed nuts while giggling slightly to herself, clearly humoured by her wine apparently -  _Molly._ He knew she knew what everyone else was talking about, but she didn’t seem to be bothered an inch by it, only chewing on her nuts with ease. 

 

"Molly," he said with a curt nod appearing by her side, as she sat in his chair. He was glad  _she_  was the one who sat in his chair. He would occasionally spot Anderson eyeing it longingly and he really didn’t have the stomach for that. 

 

Molly looked up briefly with a smile. “John bothering you about the snogging then?” she said easily wiping her hands together to remove the salt that clung to her palms. He shouldn’t really be surprised that she was on top of things and having fun with it as well. 

 

He narrowed his eyes briefly. “No,” he answered belatedly, and her bright smile only seemed to widen more particularly. 

 

"We’re platonic and that’s alright."

 

"Platonic?" he said frowning. 

 

He’d never been a fan of the word. 

 

"Yes? It was a sort of heat of the moment kind of thing anyway - not that I mind that sort of kissing, it’s just not what I have in mind."

 

She walked off to the kitchen while he stood at a loss, and soon he was following after her, aware that other eyes were following him, but he ignored them.

 

Molly poured herself a new glass of wine and stared at him in bemusement.

 

"What do you mean by that?" he said. 

 

"Hmm?" she said taking a sip of her white wine. 

 

"You know what you said."

 

He was annoyed that he was annoyed.

 

The sheer volume of his annoyance was giving him a head ache. 

 

"Sherlock, you’re - you’re not offended, are you?" she said blinking at him with doe-like eyes. "I just mean, it’s nice, but it’s not nice  _nice.”_

 

"Nice  _nice_?” he mimicked making a face. “What does that even mean?”

 

She put the glass of wine aside looking thoughtful. 

 

"It means that - it’s not a type of kiss I expect anything of really, so, you don’t need to worry. We’re friends. It’s fine. We argue and you might snog me, but that’s that," she said with a shrug, but her casualness fades away with the minor tremor in her hand. He can see it, and he takes a step forward, curiously taking in her face, and the way her breath hitches. 

 

"It’s not fine, is it?" he murmured taking gently hold of her wrists, feeling the thrumming of her pulse underneath her skin.

 

She’s nervous. 

 

"…Yes, yes it is," she said and he can smell her sweet breath, but he wants to taste it, her. He takes his time when his lips brush against hers softly, giving himself time to familiarize himself this time.

 

 

Even with the way she leans into him, all warm and soft.

 

When he withdraws he doesn’t mind that anyone’s staring, merrily glaring at them for intruding at such an important moment, especially when she’s staring at him with parted lips. 

 

"That’s your type isn’t it?"

 

She just nods silently in return.

 


	73. Love

It’s during the rain she hears the whispered words.

 

Soft breathy little words all strung up together, as she feels his bare skin against her back, his warmth,  _him._  

 

She almost feels like clutching at him, softly grabbing at his arm that is wrapped around her, shielding her, wanting to protect her.

 

The shields have finally crackled and as she turns, she sees his face, silent, watching and wondering.

 

It’s not like she hasn’t said it before.

 

It’s not like she hasn’t dropped it without proper thought, letting a kiss slide against his bare cheek before she stomped out into the streets grimacing in brief fleeting regret.

 

But it’s different, it’s more.

 

She almost wants to laugh, as there’s almost worry in his eyes.

 

Like she would never say it back.

 

Like she would leave him hanging.

 

Like she would let him fall. 

 

"I love you," she says, hand on his cheek, and he smiles, kissing the inside of her palm,  _I know_ \- that’s what the kiss feels like, but she repeats it just to be sure.

 

So does he.

 

Repeatedly. 


End file.
